


Given The Choice

by Iverna



Series: Given The Choice [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon Divergence, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Post-Neverland AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 121,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7422244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Neverland canon divergence in which everyone returns to Storybrooke with Pan safely trapped in Pandora's Box, and Emma tries to come to grips with her strange new life featuring pirates, parents, and flying monkeys. (Rating etc might change later.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a statement on how strange her life has become, Emma reflects, that she’s sitting in a booth in the diner run by Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, having lunch with her kid and the father of said kid, and thinking about Captain Hook.

Well, more like silently fuming at Captain Hook.

She hasn’t seen much of him since they returned from Neverland. He’s around, but she swears he’s avoiding her, and she can’t understand it. She dreaded a continuation of the weird rivalry between him and Neal. Instead, there’s… nothing.

Neal, for his part, hasn’t brought up the date-that-was-not-a-date. By the time her father walked her back to Granny’s, Neal was gone, and that was a relief. She’s not sure that Neal has accepted it, though. She still feels like the whole thing is hanging in limbo, and she can’t make it clear, because he won’t bring it up. But, she tells herself, that isn’t her problem.

Hook, on the other hand, _is_ her problem. She’s given up trying to pretend that it doesn’t matter, because it does. Neal, she gets. Hook continues to be a riddle wrapped in a far-too-attractive-damn-him enigma. And even if she wanted to ignore him, she can’t, because it seems like half the town wants to remind her of him on a daily basis. Like today, when she’s already been to the docks in search of the man because once again, she’s had to field a complaint.

Which he undoubtedly knows, or should expect. So is he trying to avoid her, or is he provoking her, or…?

Emma doesn’t know. Hence, Emma is fuming.

It’s almost as though her thoughts summon him. The door opens, the bell jangles, and there he is, striding into the place like he owns it. His eyes sweep the room in a way that tells her it’s an old habit. They seem to catch a little when they meet hers, but they move on to pass over Neal, and his expression becomes just a little stiff as he comes to an abrupt stop.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out.

Emma stares. So do some of the other patrons.

Her thoughts jump back into action right away, though. Most of them seem to go along the general lines of, _oh no you don’t._

Emma swallows the last bite of onion ring, tells Henry she’ll see him later, and hurries out of the diner.

“Hook!”

The pirate has barely made it to the sidewalk outside of Granny’s when Emma bursts through the door behind him. He comes to a stop, his coat flaring out behind him as he pivots to look back at her.

The sunlight is hitting him from the side, throwing his handsome features into sharp relief. There’s a slight breeze which ruffles his hair, a strand of it falling down across his forehead and daring her to sweep it aside. He shifts his weight, tilting his head back a little and leading with his hips as he turns towards her.

“Swan,” he says, all casual swagger and charming grin, seeming oblivious to what he just did. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s _infuriating_.

Emma’s voice comes out a little more harshly than she intended, a side effect of trying to push past this bizarre urge to brush his hair out of his face. “I need you to move your boat.”

He raises his eyebrows. “By boat, I assume you mean ship.”

“Whatever.” She waves the difference away. “It’s in the way.”

“Again?” he asks pointedly.

She shrugs. “I’m the sheriff. I get the complaints, I don’t make them.”

“I told you, Swan, I can’t simply move the damn thing around the docks at everyone’s whim.” He grins, leaning towards her a little. “It’s a _big_ ship.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, trying to ignore the scent of leather and sea and rum that the breeze insists on carrying over to her. “Right. Which is why it’s in the way.”

“Nonsense,” Hook scoffs. “It’s docked in accordance with regulations. Now while we’re on the subject of complaints, perhaps I ought to lodge one about this gentleman who insists on badgering me about my ship.”

With an effort, Emma reins in her temper. She doesn’t need this. She has better things to do with her time than get caught between two guys and their turf war down at the docks.

Granted, she could have told the man to work it out with Hook himself. But that would hardly be fair. She has a duty as sheriff. And sometimes that duty means seeking out the pirate and confronting him.

She sways forward a little, leaning into his space with a fake smile. “Just move the ship.”

He leans closer, too. “I’m afraid I have to decline.”

“Hook—”

“Swan?” He’s close enough to touch now, the smell of leather and salt invading her senses, her eyes cataloguing the stubble on his jaw and the little scar on his cheek and the way the sunlight lands on his eyelashes.

They’re gathering an audience, she notices vaguely. Granny is standing in the doorway, and a few people seem to be hovering behind her. A few more are lingering at a careful distance further along the sidewalk with the slightly awkward air of people who aren’t sure if they should be here, but are too intrigued to leave. Great.

She huffs out a breath. “Could you stop being so difficult?”

Hook smiles, an automatic response. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun?” Emma repeats, exasperation taking hold of her. “I’m the one caught in the middle here! You think it’s _fun_ to make my life difficult?”

“Swan, I don’t—” He steps back, drawing a hand down over his face, messing his hair up in the process. “How about you tell the gentleman to come talk to me himself. I’m sure we can come to an… arrangement.”

She narrows her eyes. “You mean you’ll threaten him.”

“What does it matter? The man has it in for me,” Hook snaps.

Emma snaps right back. “I can’t imagine why.”

His expression darkens. He’s good at that; seeing it, Emma has no problem believing that people are scared of him. He looks dangerous when he’s angry, and he’s definitely getting angry now. “Aye, it’s hard to fathom, but it appears some people carry certain prejudices against pirates.”

Emma is not intimidated. She’s far too angry to even consider it. “Again, I can’t imagine why.”

Something flashes across his face and for a moment she thinks he looks hurt, but she can’t be sure because it’s only an instant before his expression closes and he glares at her. “Perhaps I ought to leave, then, and spare you all the inconvenience of my presence!”

That sends a spike of something cold stabbing into her chest, something that feels for all the world like fear. She raises her voice – and the walls around her heart – against it. “Maybe you should!”

He draws himself up, blue eyes hard as steel under his dark brows. “Very well, if that’s what you want!”

“It’s not!” Emma is almost shouting now, frustration bubbling up inside her. “I never said that!”

For a moment, they just glare at each other. Emma is breathing a little harder, and Hook’s cheeks are tinged pink, and the distance between them is filled with heat and ice and helplessness and _don’t leave_.

Hook breaks first, shifting his weight back and scratching at his neck with his hand. “I apologise,” he says, a little stiffly. “That was… I didn’t mean to… I said I’d…” He shakes his head.

“Hook—”

He inclines his head to her a little sharply, cutting her off. “My apologies. I’ll go and see about an arrangement regarding the ship.” The words are painfully formal, even for him. He doesn’t meet her eyes again before walking away.

Emma watches him go, then flings up her hands and turns away. She doesn’t know _what_ that was, but it wasn’t a solution. Not really. Not for whatever weird secondary argument they were having underneath the first one. For the first time, she wonders if there might be some other reason for the way he keeps pulling back, in between those glimpses that imply he doesn’t really want to.

But, Emma tells herself, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine. If he wants to just walk away, that’s _fine_.

Emma considers heading back into the diner, but the distance isn’t enough to get a good angry stomp going, and she still has an audience. Granny is leaning against the doorframe, making no effort to pretend that she hasn’t been listening to every word, and she’s not the only one.

Emma glares at them all for good measure, and heads back to the station, once again silently fuming at Captain Hook.

 

*  *  *

 

Back in the diner, Granny turns around and claps her hands. “All right, show’s over, let me get back to work!”

One of the bystanders dodging out of her way is Neal. He’s been watching the proceedings with the same interest as everyone else, but it seems to Granny that there’s just a little more smugness behind the amusement. No, not smugness, she corrects herself – satisfaction. Like maybe seeing the Savior yell at the pirate has reassured him that there definitely isn’t smooth sailing ahead for those two.

Granny is inclined to agree, although she’s not so sure that smooth sailing is something either of them _wants_. The captain strikes her as the type to seek out more challenging waters. And Emma was pleasant enough at lunch, but with that slightly vague air of someone who is distracted and trying not to be.

By contrast, the demonstration out there was nothing short of stormy. And neither of them seemed at all distracted, or wanting for challenge. She’s willing to bet they barely noticed their audience.

“Oh, my boy,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head good-naturedly at an oblivious Neal as she bustles back behind the counter. “I wouldn’t celebrate just yet…”


	2. Chapter 2

The trip to Neverland left its marks on the _Jolly Roger_. Aside from the shadow still staining the main foresail an ominous inky black, the ship also carried away several singe marks, torn ropes, and general chaos left behind by a crew with no sailing experience.

It’s a lot of work for one man. Killian’s never had to do it by himself before, but his crew is in the winds and Smee has disappeared, and for all Emma’s talk of being part of something, he’s still noticeably alone.

But there is no way in this or any other realm that he’s going to go begging anyone for help.

He focuses on the repairs. He’s learned to make do, over the years, but since he’s in port anyway, he might as well look for a few replacements. Including the sail, if he can manage it. Removing the shadow is out of the question, but maybe he can remove the sail…

He marches into the first shop he finds, a ramshackle building with a faded sign saying “Marine Supplies”.

The shopkeeper, an older man with greying hair and a paunch, shrinks back a little when Killian walks towards the counter. It’s a common reaction, but Killian finds himself resenting it, just a little. He just helped the town’s heroes save Henry. A little gratitude might be too much to ask, but a little less suspicion would be nice.

“Do you have any sails in stock?” he asks without preamble.

The man’s eyes are wide. “You’re Captain Hook.”

“What gave it away?” Killian asks with a strained smile. He steps up to the counter. “Do you have any—”

“No,” the man blurts out. “No sails.”

Killian sighs. “Right. I’ll have one made, then, I’ve got the measurements here—” He digs out a piece of paper.

“No.”

“What?”

He snaps the word more than he means to, and the man glares at him, clearly scared and trying to cover it.

Killian blows out another sigh. “You can relax, mate, I assure you my intentions are entirely honourable.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Believe it or not, I do intend to pay you.” He retrieves a heavy pouch from his belt and tips some of the contents onto the counter. Gold coins clink onto the scarred wooden surface.

The man stares at them… and then he shakes his head. “No good.”

“Pardon?”

“We don’t pay with gold in this realm.” He does something to the machine on the counter, and it makes a dinging sound, and a drawer slides open at the bottom. The man takes out a few green dollar bills, and holds them out to Killian. “We pay with these. Dollars.”

“Thank you, I know what dollars are,” Killian snaps. He’s never run into this problem in Granny’s. “But gold is gold in any realm, mate.”

The man shakes his head obstinately. “Not a valid currency, _mate_.”

He won’t budge on the subject, and Killian quickly grows tired of trying to win the man’s favour. It isn’t often that his charm fails him, but he’s admittedly not really on form today. Between the repairs and the situation with Emma, whose new favourite pastime seems to be to yell at him about complaints from Storybrooke’s residents, he’s not in the best mood for charm.

“Fine. I’ll take my business elsewhere.” He collects his money and turns on his heel to stride out of the shop.

The problem is that there is no elsewhere. Storybrooke is the sorriest excuse for a port town he’s ever seen. Every other port he’s set foot in was full of shops and stalls offering everything a ship needs, from huge sails and pitch to sewing thread and nails for repairs.

Here, he only finds a small store selling cans of oil and what he’s told are outboard motors, and another one dedicated entirely to fishing equipment. The only sailing ships around are much smaller than the _Jolly Roger_ , and the supplies are correspondingly limited.

Maybe the man wasn’t just refusing to serve him, Killian realises a little belatedly. Maybe he also wasn’t able to.

But that’s preposterous. There are sailing brigs in this realm; he’s seen pictures, and Emma doesn’t regard his ship like he regards her car, as something from another world. There must be some way to get what he needs.

His steps turn back to the first shop. This time, he foregoes the front door, but he lingers by the display windows, peering inside. There is rope, at least, of varying thickness and brightly coloured. He can’t see anything else that looks useful. His eyes catch on a small sailing ship in a bottle in the centre of one of the display windows, and his lip pulls back in a sneer.

Instead of entering again, he makes his way around the side. It might turn out to be a hopeless search, but he’s not going to give up until he has confirmation.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma has never much cared for patrol duty, but today, she volunteered for it. Cruising along the quiet streets of Storybrooke isn’t the best way to let off steam, but it’s better than sitting around in the sheriff station with David and his concerned looks.

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. It’s not that she doesn’t like David, or his concern. She knows that he means it. He wants what’s best for her.

Everyone wants what’s best for her. The trouble is, they seem to have forgotten to ask her opinion on what that is. So she’s torn – between Henry and Neal, between her parents and Neal, between what’s expected and what she wants.

And if she has to listen to one more speech about opening her heart, she’s going to scream.

It’s partly her own fault. She still hasn’t told her parents the truth about her past with Neal. She’s considered it, but then she sees Henry grinning at Neal, or her parents smiling at the pair, and she knows that the truth would ruin all of that.

She’s just turning back onto the main street and wondering if it’s time for lunch when the phone rings.

It’s David. “Emma? I just got a call from a Mr. Tanner down at the docks, can you go down and check it out?”

“Sure, what’s going on?”

A sigh. “Seems he’s having some trouble with Hook.”

Emma’s heart somehow manages to drop and lift at the same time. “What kind of trouble?”

“He didn’t say. He just said he’s sure that damn pirate is up to no good. Uh, his words.”

In other words, no actual trouble, just more fear and prejudice. Probably. Emma still doesn’t know what exactly Hook is up to these days, but the idea of him robbing the local stores or scaring the residents is laughable. It’s not his style. She’s pretty sure that if he was going to do something illegal, it’d be something with a lot more flair.

But this is not the first time she’s had to chase him down for something, and she’s starting to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. What that purpose might be, she doesn’t know, aside from make her life even more complicated than it already is.

If this is the “fun” he spoke of back in Neverland, she might just end up strangling him.

“Of course,” Emma mutters, gritting her teeth and turning off the main street and onto the little road leading down to the dock area. “I’m almost there. I’ll take care of it.”

“Sorry,” David says, sounding like he means it. “I was gonna go myself, but then I figured you’re closer…”

“I am. I’m here.” She parks the car and grabs the keys. “I gotta go.”

He sighs. “Good luck.”

“Right.” Emma waits until David has hung up before letting out a frustrated growl. This is exactly the turn her day didn’t need. Caught once again between the residents of Storybrooke and Captain Hook, between stupid complaints and irreverent comments.

On the other hand, maybe she’ll get to let off some steam, after all.

 

*  *  *

 

There are no windows around the side of the shop, only a back door with two panes of glass to allow Killian a glimpse of the storeroom. It doesn’t yield much of value, either; he sees no rolls of canvas, no sign of pitch, nothing.

A whisper of movement behind him is his only warning. Then a woman’s voice, familiar but unexpected: “Freeze! Don’t move.”

He complies, resignation rooting his feet to the ground.

“Hands up.”

“I hope that doesn’t have to be literal, love.” He lifts his arms and turns to face Emma Swan.

She looks the same as always – red leather jacket, blonde hair loose around her shoulders, brows drawn together in what isn’t quite a frown. She’s got her gun out, though she’s not pointing it at him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Reconnaissance,” he offers, his tone making it more a suggestion than an explanation.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re casing the place?”

More suspicion. As if he hasn’t had enough of that today. He might have become used to it, over the years, but it’s a different matter when it’s not justified. “I’m not planning a robbery, Swan, I’m simply trying to ascertain whether this bloody shop has the items I need.”

“The usual way to do that is to walk in and ask.”

“Yes, thank you, you don’t think I tried that?”

She tilts her head in that way of hers. “I know you went in, scared the guy, left, and now you’re skulking around here.”

“I didn’t—” Killian breaks off. He did scare the guy. He may not have intended to, but he did. “I am not skulking.”

“Mr. Tanner thinks you are.” She gives him a look of appeal as she puts the gun away and takes a few steps towards him. “Seriously, do we have to do this every day?”

He glowers at her. “Ask your law-abiding citizens. I’m not the one lodging complaints with the sheriff’s department just because a pirate dared to look at me.”

“No one’s complaining about your _looks_ ,” Emma says.

His mouth twitches into a grin, his mood lifting ever so slightly. “Aye, I daresay they’d be hard-pressed to find fault with those.”

She blows out a sigh with just a hint of growl in it. “I meant—”

“Sheriff?” The shopkeeper appears behind her. “Did you get him?”

“I’ve got it, Mr. Tanner,” Emma calls over her shoulder. “Go back inside.”

“Are you sure?”

And Killian swears that he sees worry on the man’s face – not for himself, but for the woman he’s inadvertently sent to apprehend Captain Hook. The woman who has bested Captain Hook so many times that he couldn’t even count it on both hands, if he had them.

Killian can’t help the laugh bubbling up inside him at the mere idea of Emma being scared of him, or having reason to. He manages to turn it into a wide smirk, which he sends Tanner’s way. “Do you mind, mate? We were having a moment.”

Tanner responds by coming closer, his brows furrowed in suspicion. “Really? And here I thought the sheriff was doing her job, apprehending criminals.”

“Perhaps she’s not as quick to judge as some people,” Killian snaps, something about the man’s tone and the way his eyes flick to Emma putting his teeth on edge.

“Or maybe her judgement is just impaired,” Tanner says, and there’s a world of meaning in those words.

Killian isn’t quite sure what the man is insinuating, but he’s sure that he doesn’t like it. Likes it even less, in fact, than the suspicion regarding his own person. His hand curls into a fist and his lip pulls back in a snarl—

“All right, that’s it,” Emma snaps, moving towards him. He does freeze, then, as she comes close enough to touch. The slight breeze carries her scent, cinnamon and something subtle and sweet. Her hair falls into her face and he tracks it, his eyes sliding across her face, noting the faintest hint of freckles on her cheeks.

Then there’s a metallic clink, and Killian looks down just in time to see her grab his wrist and slip a metal handcuff around it. “You’re coming down to the station.”

He bristles. “On what grounds?”

“You’re trespassing.” Emma rounds on Tanner. “And you. If you’ve got a problem with me or my judgement, you can lodge a complaint. But do it at the station and not while I’m in the middle of an arrest, got it?”

Tanner looks suitably chastised. “My apologies.”

“Good. Okay. Come on, Hook.” Emma tugs at his arm, and he obliges her by moving forward, suppressing the instinctive urge to fight. He almost smirks at Tanner again as he walks past, as if being led away in handcuffs by the sheriff is exactly what he wanted, but thinks better of it. Normally, he’d be all too happy to give the man the wrong idea. Now, suddenly, he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Or, more accurately, the ammunition.

Emma keeps a firm grip on his arm as she marches over to where the sheriff car is parked. Her hand feels like it’s burning through his coat, and he knows he’ll feel the imprint of her touch for the rest of the day.

And now that he thinks of it, perhaps it’s not the best idea to go along to the one place where he’s guaranteed to be around her. Granted, getting arrested hardly counts as courting, but as he’s come to find out over the past few days, it’s really, really difficult to _not_ flirt with Emma Swan. It’s why he’s tried to avoid her, although he’s admittedly not doing the best of jobs with that.

“Swan—” he starts.

“Just—” she begins at the same time.

Their eyes meet. He shakes his head and gestures for her to continue.

“Just get in the car?” she says, her tone almost resigned. “We can argue about it at the station, okay?”

He has half a mind to argue the point, but Emma looks tired, and Tanner is probably still watching. He shrugs. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

“What happened?” David asks, his eyebrows rising as Emma trails Killian into the station’s main room.

“What does it look like?” Emma tosses her car keys onto the table and flings herself onto a chair. “Mr. Tanner thought he was trespassing.”

“So you just arrested him?” David looks almost offended.

“To get him out of there,” Emma says defensively.

David shrugs. “Couldn’t you just let him go?”

“And explain it to Tanner?” Emma asks, her voice strained. Everything about her seems strained, from the tense set of her shoulders to the downward pull of her lips. “So he can accuse me of playing favourites over a pretty face and too much charm? I’ve had enough of that, thanks.”

Killian perks up. That’s the first time he’s heard anything about _that_. “Your favourite is whatnow?”

They both pause their discussion to give him almost identical strained-patience looks.

“Well, since you’ve arrested him,” David says with a quirk of his lips, “I guess we should get a mugshot of that pretty face and file the paperwork.”

Emma snorts a laugh. “Really? You wanna file a report on arresting Captain Hook?”

“It’s the law,” David points out. “What was he doing that was so bad, anyway?”

“I was attempting to procure supplies,” Killian says stiffly. “Since the gentleman was unwilling to assist me, I took matters into my own hands. Hand.”

“So you _were_ casing the place?” Emma asks.

It isn’t an accusation, not quite, but it still stings. “I already told you, I’ve no intention of stealing anything.”

“Then why are you being so evasive?”

“I am _not_ being evasive!”

“Well, you’re definitely holding back.” She’s giving him that look again, head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed, trying to figure him out.

“Oh, Swan, say the word and I’ll stop _holding back_ ,” he promises with a crooked grin.

“Stop changing the subject!”

“What do you mean?” he asks innocently. “Are we not talking about your accusations of stealing anymore?”

Emma’s throat works, but she says nothing. Instead, she grabs her car keys, thunder on her face. “I’m going back on patrol.”

Killian spins as she storms past him. “Come now, Swan—”

“Emma—”

“No!” Emma yells as she all but runs down the hallway.

The front door slams shut, the sound echoing down the hallway, and for a moment, there’s silence.

“Well then,” David says, deceptively casual. “Maybe I _should_ get a mugshot. For posterity, before she comes back and gives you a black eye or something.”

 

*  *  *

 

David’s apparent good mood does nothing to improve Killian’s. That’s the only reason why he eventually snaps when the prince keeps asking questions about what supplies he needed, and why he needed another sail when the ship already had sails, and what the difference between a foresail and a staysail is anyway. Part of Killian recognises the man’s goading for what it is, but he’s never been good at controlling his temper.

So eventually, he grits out something about no one being willing to help a pirate, surprising as that may be to a prince, and leaves before he can make an even bigger fool of himself, cursing all the way back to the _Jolly Roger_.

And the next day, bright and early, David Nolan shows up at the bottom of the gangplank and asks to be put to work.

The day after that, Henry Mills is shouting for permission to come aboard, escorted by a slightly sheepish Neal Cassidy.

“He heard David talking about it,” he tells Killian as he shuffles up the gangplank after his son, hands jammed into his pockets. “Wanted to come help, so…”

“Emma couldn’t come, she’s gotta work,” Henry puts in. He grins, squinting a little in the morning sunlight. “So I’m helping you for both of us.”

“That’s very noble of you, lad,” Killian tells him. “Thank you.”

It’s the worst crew Killian has ever commanded. Neal is the only one who knows the first thing about ships and sailing, and Henry is more interested in learning to sail than scrubbing the deck. But for all that, he finds his mood is better than it has been in days.

His stomach clenches just a little when Tinkerbell shows up, drawn more by Henry’s laughter than anything else. Killian hasn’t seen her since his rather ill-advised attempt at flirtation a few days ago. A stupid move, that, motivated by drunkenness and despair and the sudden thought that maybe, what he felt in Neverland was a general reawakening of his black heart. A reminder that he can feel something other than anger and despair, that giving up on his quest for revenge has left space for something else.

That stepping back for Henry’s sake, and giving Neal a chance to make things right with Emma, doesn’t mean giving up on love again. That there is a way for them all to get what they want, and find some happiness.

But Killian has come to know himself pretty well over the past two centuries. When it comes to affairs of the heart, he’s a one-track sort of man.

And the track, it seems, always heads for the same ill-fated place.

But at least Tink doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge.

“You should do something about that,” she says, pointing up at the black foresail as she leans against the railing. “Looks weird.”

Henry, sitting nearby on the steps leading up to the helm, looks up, scrunching up his face as he does so. “She’s right. It’s kinda creepy.”

“Don’t think it’s that simple,” Neal says, the words coming out a little strained as he helps Killian tighten one of the lines. “Magic got it in there, you’ll need magic to get it out.”

Killian finishes with the line, wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve. Summer has long since faded, but on days like this the sun is still plenty warm. Two hours of work have left him in shirtsleeves, his leather coat and waistcoat discarded on the helm, his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow.

He steps over to join Tink, taking a swig from one of the water bottles that David brought. “Aye, and letting Pan out of the box to ask him to remove it is out of the question.” He gives her a speculative look. “Unless _you_ have a way.”

Tink raises her eyebrows. “I’m staying the hell away from that thing.”

“Maybe my mom could help,” Henry says.

Killian’s eyes flick to Neal, trying to gauge his reaction. He may have ceased his courtship of Emma, but he’s not blind. He sees the way Neal tenses whenever he and Emma run into each other – which, Killian will admit, seems to be happening a lot.

Neal is frowning. “I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m not sure I trust Regina around that shadow.”

Right. Regina. Henry’s other mom. Who also has magic – and, Killian realises belatedly, probably knows more about this conundrum than Emma does, given that she’s the one who trapped the shadow in the sail to begin with.

“She wouldn’t do anything bad!” Henry looks upset by the very idea of it, and Killian never thought he’d have the urge to defend Regina Mills and her intentions, but here it is, burning on his tongue.

Tink beats him to it. “She _has_ changed. And I think she’s smarter than to mess with that thing.”

Henry nods. “Exactly. But I meant Emma, anyway.”

“Emma?” Neal looks surprised for an instant. “You think she knows how to do that?”

“She trapped the shadow before,” Henry says. “She can do it again.”

Neal’s voice takes on a reasonable tone. “Henry, trapping the shadow’s pretty easy. The problem is getting it out of the sail.”

Henry heaves a very adult-sounding sigh. “I _know_ that. I’m telling you, she can do it. She’s got magic, you know.”

“Yeah, well…” Neal sucks in a breath, looking uncomfortable. Killian isn’t sure if it’s just the idea of Emma on his ship, or if maybe there’s more to it. Neal has never approved of magic. They have that in common.

But until this moment, it never occurred to Killian to count Emma’s magic among that.

“If we need magic,” Neal goes on, “we do have a fairy right here.”

Tink huffs out a breath. “Lost my wings, remember?”

“Perhaps you can find them again,” Killian suggests. He sees the reluctance on her face, and adds, “Not for the shadow. Forget that. But perhaps you can start with something small. The staysail has a few singe marks I’d rather be rid of before anything frays.”

“Hook, I _can’t_. I asked Blue. She said she can’t give me back my wings. She can’t believe in me anymore.”

“Then maybe you need to find some people who can,” David says as he joins them, grabbing a water bottle from Henry. His sleeves are rolled up, too, and his eyes are sparkling in that obnoxiously hopeful way of his. It’s pretty clear who he’s talking about.

“Exactly!” Henry says, jumping to his feet. “You’re Tinkerbell! You just need people to believe in you. And we _do_.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Tink starts.

“Yes it is! Come on. At least try it.” And Henry turns the full power of his wide-eyed, hopeful expression on her.

Tink looks momentarily overwhelmed, sending a look of appeal at Killian. He just grins and shrugs. “I’d listen to him, Tink.”

“Didn’t take you for a believer.”

“I’m not,” he lies, mostly because David is standing next to him and he’d never, ever, live it down. “But I do know a thing or two about excuses, and you are making excuses. You can do this. We all know it. Stop running from it.”

She glares at him. “I’m not running.”

He grins again. “Prove it.”

She doesn’t stop glaring, but she lets Henry pull her away.

David chuckles. Killian looks at him, expecting to see his eyes on Henry, but the prince is looking right back at him. Killian frowns. “What?”

David shakes his head, all innocence. “Nothing.”

 

*  *  *

 

Focused on his own work, Killian misses how it happens, but Tink does it. It’s only a tiny thing, a little spark of magic that fixes one of the singe marks he told her about, but it’s magic, and she can’t seem to stop smiling about it.

“Told you,” he says, but before she can roll her eyes at him, he adds, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Her tone is wry, but she seems to mean it. “So. Anyone for lunch? Granny’s?”

“I can’t,” David says with an apologetic smile. “I promised Snow I’d come home for lunch today. Speaking of which, I should get going. I’ll see you back here afterwards.”

Henry waves as David leaves, then turns to Neal. “And _you_ promised me a picnic.”

Neal ruffles his hair with a smile. “That I did, and you’ll get it.”

“Fine,” Tink says, mock-offended, but she’s smiling. “Well, I’m heading to Granny’s. I want a donut. Or one of those pastries, wolf claws or whatever they’re called.”

“Bear claws,” Killian corrects without thinking, adding, “The wolf’s the one selling them.”

Tink heaves a sigh that ends in a laugh, rolling her eyes as if she’s losing her mind. “Bear claws. Right. The waitress is a wolf, the sheriff’s a Swan, it’s hard to keep track.”

David chuckles. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Aye, just steer clear of the crocodile,” Killian adds.

She gives him a wry smile. “Noted. So… you coming?”

It’s just about the last thing he expected, but he doesn’t question it. “Sure.”

“Right then,” Neal says, and he actually smiles at both of them. “See you back here.”

Killian gestures for Tink to precede him down the gangplank, falling into step beside her as they head towards the town.

“Sure you want to be seen in the company of a pirate?” he asks, teasing. His chest feels lighter than it has in days. Tink is one of very few people he knows from _before_ , and by now probably the only person who doesn’t resent him for one reason or another. His worry of messing that up has been hidden under all the other things on his mind, but he notices it now that it’s gone. Resolving that nonsense might just be the best thing that’s happened to him in days.

Not counting the many arguments he’s had with Emma – and the fact that he has to stop himself from counting them is both ridiculous and a little worrying.

 _Pathetic_ , some part of him sneers.

 _Typical_ , another part of him sighs.

They’re both almost drowned out by the part that’s trying to bite back a smile at the memory of Emma Swan’s flashing eyes and biting tone and angry words.

“Won’t be the first time,” Tink says, wrenching his thoughts back to reality. “Wait a second, though, you don’t think Emma would get the wrong idea, do you?”

He’s shaking his head – Emma is hardly the type for that – before he realises, and shakes it harder. “It’s not her concern either way. She and I aren’t… well.”

Tink rolls her eyes. “Right, you’re too busy yelling at each other these days.”

“You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that. I may be new here, but even I’ve heard that the Savior and Captain Hook apparently disagree on every subject under the sun.”

He grimaces, although his heart gives a little leap at _the Savior and Captain Hook_. It has a ring to it.

 _Ridiculous_ , he reminds himself.

 _I don’t care_ , his heart reminds him.

“That’s not quite true.”

Tink scoffs good-naturedly. “Please don’t tell me this is your idea of a courtship.”

“I’m not courting anyone,” Killian says a little stiffly.

“Why not?” Tink asks. “And don’t try to tell me you’ve lost interest. What happened? Did she turn you down?”

“It’s complicated,” Killian growls. “But speaking of interest, what happened with your magic?”

Tink laughs. “That was the worst attempt at changing the subject ever.”

“Too late,” Killian says with finality. “It’s changed. Now tell me. I’m curious.”

Tink laughs some more, but she obliges. By the time they reach Granny’s diner, he’s managed to steer the conversation far away from Emma Swan and courtship and his abysmal failure of a love life. His thoughts even follow suit, at least mostly, which makes for a nice change.

Until they walk into the diner, and he catches a glint of pale gold across the room, and he knows it’s Emma before he even sees her face because his heart thunders once, twice, and something flutters in his stomach, and he feels the urge to curse, which he does.

“What?” Tink asks as she steps past him, leaving him to close the door.

He gives her a wide, close-lipped smile. Why is it that no matter where he goes, he just keeps running into this woman? “Nothing. Lead on.”

He’s walking by the table when Emma gets up. Her back is to him, and he sidesteps the chair as she pushes it back, but she’s halfway through pulling on her jacket and something gets caught and she stumbles.

His arm shoots out to steady her. “Easy, there, Swan.”

She looks up at him, green eyes wide. His hand is on her arm and she’s leaning into him, her hip almost grazing his, close enough to feel the warmth of her body.

For the briefest instant, she just holds his gaze. Then her eyes flick to Tink, and she yanks her arm back and shoves her other arm through the jacket sleeve. “I’m fine.”

Something about it – her tone, maybe, or the way she shakes him off – has his temper flaring. “You’re welcome.”

“I said I was fine.”

“Aye, I could tell.” He rolls his eyes and grabs the chair, moving it back in to the table.

Emma reaches for it before he can finish. “I don’t need your help.”

He bites back another curse. What exactly did he do to offend her, anyway? “I’m aware of that, love. Just being a gentleman.”

“I can handle it.”

That’s a bad choice of words, and he can tell that they both remember exactly why, because Emma’s eyes widen just a bit and he swears he can almost feel jungle heat and a tug on the lapel of his coat.

He smirks before he can stop himself. “I’m aware of that, too.”

Emma glares at him. Her throat works, but no words make it out past the anger and frustration written, not on her face, but in the rest of her body.

There’s a flash or brightness from somewhere below his line of sight, where her hands are clenched into fists.

The air seems to hit him, knocking him back into the counter behind him. Tink gasps. There’s an odd humming sound, and the lights in the diner flicker and go dark. A shower of sparks erupts somewhere near the door, then the lights flicker again, and come back on  – all except the one where the sparks flew.

“Just a power cut!” Granny yells from somewhere. “No problem!”

But Emma’s eyes are wide, and Tink’s hand is on his shoulder, and while Killian still isn’t exactly sure how this electricity stuff works, he’s willing to bet that it wasn’t to blame for this.

“You okay?” Tink asks.

Emma’s hand twitches towards him, but she checks the movement – from reluctance to touch him or fear of hurting him, he’s not sure.

Definitely magic, then. Her magic.

That’s a new one.

Killian pushes away from the counter, more concerned with the horrified look on Emma’s face than the slight and already fading ache in his back. “No worries, I’m fine. Swan? Everything all right?”

Emma looks down at her hands, then back at Killian. “I didn’t—that was—are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says again. He tries a smile. “Although I’d appreciate a warning next time.”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.” Tink gives Emma a reassuring smile. “Just a little misfire. It happens, especially if you get riled up or—”

“Right,” Emma cuts her off, and Killian isn’t sure now whether she looks scared or mortified. “I’m gonna—I gotta go.”

And she’s gone, leaving the diner bell jangling in her wake. Killian turns to Tink, who shrugs. “It happens,” she says. “Magic bursts out sometimes if you don’t learn to control it, especially when… uhm.”

“When what?” he prompts.

“Emotions tend to trigger it,” Tink says with a smile that looks far too amused. “Strong emotions.”

Killian runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “So you’re saying I made her really angry.”

“Sure,” Tink says, that smile still in place. “Let’s go with that.”

 

*  *  *

 

Emma runs. Her feet take her to her car, and her car takes her out of the town and into the woods. She stays there for a while, listening to the wind in the trees and the birds whistling to each other, trying to calm down.

A few weeks ago, she would have cursed and laughed and refused to believe any of it. Now…

Well, denial gets a lot harder after you’ve used magic to defeat the Evil Queen’s mother and trap Peter Pan’s shadow.

And knock Captain Hook into the counter at the local diner.

Emma winces at the memory.

She didn’t mean to do it, of course. But he was right there, way too close, his eyes too soft and his touch too gentle. He was there with Tinkerbell, who looked far too amused at the whole scene. And then, to top it all off, Emma made the mistake of remembering Neverland – specifically, that long, stretched moment in Neverland where she’d thrown caution to the wind and kissed him for all she was worth.

And he smirked in that way of his because he was remembering it, too.

And she didn’t want to push him away. Once she realised _that_ , it all just flared up inside her. Anger, fear, and other feelings she can’t even name. Too much. It’s always too much.

So she pushed it away. Or rather, something boiled up inside her and pushed it all away.

Another thought settles like cold lead into Emma’s stomach: Tinkerbell was there. Tinkerbell, who knows quite a lot about magic. Hook’s _friend_ , who probably knows exactly what makes a person lose control over her magic. And if she tells Hook…

Emma still isn’t sure how she feels about Hook. But she is very sure that whatever it is, he can’t know about it. She can’t let him know about it. The idea of him even _thinking_ that she feels something for him – which she _doesn’t_ , unless you count frustration and annoyance and a grudging admission that he’s easy on the eyes – is enough to make her grind her teeth together.

She draws in a breath, lets it out again slowly. She needs to learn to control this. She’s considered it once or twice, since Neverland, but the issue hasn’t come up and she’s had other worries.

But no more. She’s still not all that eager to learn magic, but she can’t risk another outburst like this. She might hurt someone.

Emma digs out her phone. It takes another moment or two before the call connects, which she uses to breathe as evenly as possible.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Regina? I need a favour.” Another breath. “I need you to teach me to use magic.”


	3. Chapter 3

Emma says it so casually that Neal almost misses it, the first time. “Wait, whoah,” he says, cutting her off mid-sentence. “You’re learning magic?”

He hears the accusatory tone in his own voice, and of course Emma hears it, too. “Just a little,” she says defensively. “After Neverland, I thought it’d be good if I knew some of the basics, at least.”

Neal shakes his head as the old fear presses in on him. It reared its head before, after he almost died a shadowy death in Dark Hollow, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Now, standing outside Granny’s diner, with no evil entity actively trying to kill him and no devilishly handsome rival suitor in sight, he’s far less distracted. And far more worried. “You’re kidding.”

There’s a frown on Emma’s face now – she clearly doesn’t realise the gravity of the situation. “I’m not kidding.”

Neal sucks in a breath. “How can you even consider it? What about Henry?”

Emma’s frown deepens. “What about him?”

“My father had magic,” Neal says, trying to make her see, make her understand. “I grew up with it. It ruined my _life_.”

She knows the story by now, how Rumplestiltskin abused his power and betrayed his own son rather than give it up. He told her all of it, in the hopes that sharing his past might close some of the gap between them. It hasn’t, not really, but at least it ought to serve as a warning against using magic. But Emma shakes her head. “It’s different for me.”

The worry weighing down his chest pushes in a little harder. He knows all too well how easy it is to justify it. “You say that now.”

“It’s already part of me!” she bursts out. “I can’t exactly help it! I just want to learn to control it so it doesn’t do any harm!”

The reminder brings a fresh wave of fear, making his gut churn. He’s been trying not to think about that, telling himself that it had been a fluke, that lighting a candle wasn’t such a big deal. She’s still Emma. She’s not a monster. Even his father has bettered himself, magic notwithstanding. Maybe it isn’t just a curse.

But the thought of Emma wielding magic scares him. He can’t lose someone else he loves to it. The risk is too great.

He tries reason. “Emma. Just think about it before you go playing around with power like that. Magic is dangerous.”

“I know that,” Emma grinds out, looking as frustrated as she sounds. “But I can’t exactly just wish it away.”

A thought occurs to him. “Maybe Regina can block it. There must be a way to do that.”

“You mean with magic?” Emma asks pointedly.

He gets her meaning, and it’s suddenly hard to look her in the eye. Emma notices, of course, and her eyes narrow. “Why is it okay for her to use it, but not me?” she asks, her voice taking on that edge it gets when she’s figuring things out – or getting paranoid. “She’s Henry’s mother, too.”

Neal huffs out an impatient breath. “I don’t like it. But I can’t stop her.”

It’s not quite true, or at least, it’s not the full truth. He doesn’t like Regina, and she certainly doesn’t seem to think much of him. She has a way about her that makes him feel smaller in her presence. He’s used to feeling that way around men who are taller than him – like Killian, or David. But with Regina, it’s worse. And Emma is starting to have moments where she makes him feel like that, too, just a little.

But he doesn’t know how to tell her that. Or rather, he isn’t sure that he _wants_ to tell her that.

Emma raises her chin. “But you can stop me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Neal says quickly. “Just… think about it, okay? Maybe there’s another way.”

And if there is, he promises himself, he’s going to find it. He won’t lose her to the lure of magic. He can’t.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma strides along the sidewalk, fists clenched and jaw tight with the effort to keep from screaming. She almost hopes that someone will get in her way, just to give her an excuse to snarl something vicious, but there’s no one around. Typical. They’re always there if they need something, but the minute _she_ needs something…

She shakes the thought away, annoyed at herself. She doesn’t need anyone. Or anything.

Except maybe to punch Neal Cassidy in his guileless face. But _that’s_ a powder keg if ever there was one.

Her feet carry her towards Granny’s before she makes a conscious choice. She can’t go home to the loft, not now, not before she’s calmed down. She can’t face her mother’s diplomatic explanations and her father’s well-meaning concern. She can’t face the thought of trying to explain her anger to them, but she knows that if she doesn’t, she’ll hurt them with her refusal to open up, and that’s worse.

She needs a drink.

Not an alcoholic one – she’s never found much comfort in it, and these days, the sharp burn of alcohol always reminds her of humid heat and warm leather under her fingers and a calloused hand in her hair and a very different kind of burn somewhere deep within her.

No, she doesn’t need that. She doesn’t even need to _think_ about that.

Even if it is more pleasant than dwelling on everything that’s currently driving her strides in a quest for hot chocolate and a bear claw and all the sugary comfort she can get her hands on.

But the scene that meets her when she opens the door almost has her turning on her heel, as some inner meter of “things Emma Swan does not need today” reaches its maximum and boils over into soundless frustration.

Hook is sitting at the counter, drink in his hand, Tinkerbell at his side. He’s got one elbow on the counter, almost lounging against it in his ridiculous billowing shirt and black vest, half the buttons open as usual to show off tan skin and dark chest hair and those silver charms that always draw Emma’s attention downward. He looks relaxed, even happy, as he smiles at whatever Tink is saying. The fairy is perched on the stool next to him, gesticulating as she talks, her chirpy voice carrying all the way to the door.

And Ruby is leaning on the counter opposite the two, her position ideal for showing off a generous amount of cleavage – by accident or design, Emma doesn’t know. She has a smile on her face, too. In fact, the three of them look very cosy, friends sharing a drink and a laugh.

Emma wants to throw something. Preferably at Hook.

So much for peace and quiet and sugary comfort. It’s pretty clear that she won’t get it here.

She has barely a moment to take in the scene and consider just walking straight back out when Hook’s eyes slide over to her, and she swears his smile widens.

Tinkerbell seems to notice, because she swivels on her stool to look over at Emma. Her pretty features light up. “Hi, Emma!”

“Come join us,” Ruby offers, waving her over. “What can I get you?”

Emma glances at Hook, who still hasn’t said anything. He’s still smiling, but there’s something behind it that she can’t identify.

Smugness, probably, she thinks savagely. Well, if he’s hoping to make her jealous, he’s failing miserably. And if he thinks she’s going to join him and his harem of admirers, he can think again.

She walks over to the counter as if it doesn’t matter, as if her heart isn’t pounding and her fists aren’t itching to hit someone, something, anything. “Hi,” she says, plastering a smile onto her face. “Can I get a hot chocolate? And a bear claw, if you have any left?”

“One,” Ruby says with a smile. “Just for you. Guess it was fate.”

“Guess so,” Emma says, feeling her spirits lift just a little, despite herself. “Thanks. But I’ll take those to go, please.”

“Sure.” Ruby busies herself with the hot chocolate.

“Everything all right, Swan?” Hook says. He’s leaning a little further onto the counter so that he can see her past Tink, and his blue eyes are intent on her. Trying to figure her out, as usual. _Looking for weak spots_ , the cynical part of her mind whispers.

“Fine,” she says. “Just busy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fighting all the rampant crime in this dangerous town?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Just keeping an eye out for the criminal elements.”

“Well, it seems you’ve found one,” he says, spreading his arms. She’s not sure if she hears a touch of bitterness in his voice, or if it’s just quiet amusement.

“Maybe you should stay and keep an eye on him,” Granny suggests as she passes by Ruby behind the counter, a smile hidden behind her gruff expression. “He looks like trouble.”

“ _Paying_ trouble,” Hook shoots back, mock-indignant.

“Yeah? Where’d you get the gold?” Granny challenges, a glint in her eye.

He shrugs, a glint in his eyes. “If I tell you, you might be honour-bound to reject it, and that wouldn’t help either of us.”

For a moment, Granny glowers at him. Then she laughs, actually laughs, and shakes her head, slanting a look at Emma. “I’m telling you. This one bears watching.”

Emma’s eyes meet Hook’s, and she swears she can see the grin blooming on his lips, the innuendo on the tip of his tongue. But he turns, and Granny gets the grin instead. “Making excuses doesn’t suit you,” he tells her. “Enjoy the view all you like, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Pity,” Granny comments with a wink, before moving on towards the kitchen. Hook’s laugh follows her, a sound made all the more startling by the realisation that Emma hasn’t heard it very often. It’s a nice sound. He looks good when he laughs, too, eyes crinkling at the corners and sparking with delight.

Emma swallows back the tightness in her throat, feeling like she just lost something. She’s not sure what it is, but she misses it all the same.

Ruby brings her the hot chocolate and slides a wrapped bear claw beside it, smiling and shaking her head at the exchange between her grandmother and the pirate. Beside Hook, Tinkerbell is laughing, trying to stop long enough to take another swig of her drink and not doing a very good job.

Emma forces her fists to unclench as she digs in her pockets for money, eager to get out of here.

“Enjoy,” Ruby says brightly as she hands her a napkin.

Emma gives her a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

She makes her escape before anyone else can say anything, pushing through the door and almost scalding her fingers in the process as some of her hot chocolate seeps past the lid and down the cup. Damn it, anyway.

She looks around, realising that she has no idea where to go. The plan was to hole up in Granny’s for a while, letting her anger and frustration settle before heading home, but that’s just been shot to pieces. There’s no way she can do that while watching Hook flirt with every single woman in his immediate surroundings.

Every woman except her, that is.

Emma strides down the street, more annoyed than ever. He’s flirting with _Granny_. It confirms a trend that Emma has noticed – he’ll flirt with everyone and anyone, just not her. In Neverland, he couldn’t seem to stop, and now that she actually has some time to think and process things, there’s nothing.

It makes no sense, and she doesn’t like it.

It’s not that she’s jealous. She’s not.

Her lie detector, unfortunately, also works pretty well on herself, and she sighs in defeat.

But it’s _more_ than just a little jealousy. She can feel that there’s something wrong, and it hangs between them, and she can’t seem to grasp it. She can’t fix it. She’s mad at herself for _wanting_ to fix it. It’s not like they’re friends.

It’s not like they’ve fought back to back and she kissed him and he looked at her with fear in his eyes and a tremor in his voice as he admitted his darkest secret to help her save Neal.

Thinking of Neal brings the magic argument back, and something heavy and unpleasant coils in her chest, snaking up her throat. She swallows. Maybe that’s it. Maybe Hook, too, is nervous around her magic. He’s never shown a hint of it before, but she did shove him into the counter…

_It’s more than that_ , her gut whispers.

But her mind isn’t listening.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma spends a restless night alternatively fuming and worrying. Neal has no right to tell her what to do. No right.

But she can’t help wondering if maybe he has a point.

Regina rolls her eyes when Emma brings it up the following day. “Is that why you’ve been holding back?”

“No,” Emma protests, but her marked lack of progress with lighting the candle she’s holding tells a different story and she knows it. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t want to put Henry in danger.”

“Oh, sure,” Regina says acidly. “Let’s take parenting advice from the guy who’s been playing father for three weeks.”

“He’s just worried about Henry,” Emma says, although she’s not quite sure that’s all it is. She’s never pillaged towns or tortured peasants or whatever the Evil Queen did, she’s never used her magic to hurt anyone (except for Hook, but that was an accident and the whole point of these lessons is to prevent further accidents). So why _is_ it okay for Regina to use it, but not her?

Regina’s expression has turned a little stony. “Henry is fine. Magic isn’t a threat to him.”

“I know,” Emma hastens to say. The last thing she needs is to fuel the dislike between Regina and Neal. “It’s just that I’m not exactly in control of mine.”

“Right.” Regina waves her hand at the candle in Emma’s hand, and around the vault. “Hence, the lessons.” Her face loses a little of the annoyed impatience, and her voice takes on a more reasonable, almost reassuring tone. “You carry a gun, don’t you? Magic’s the same. It can hurt people if you want it to, or if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“That’s what I thought,” Emma admits.

“Well, you were right.” Regina tilts her head, and gives Emma a calculating look. “You know, you’ve never struck me as the type to let some clueless idiot tell you what to do. Are you?”

Emma glares at her. “No.”

“But you’re letting him stop you?”

“ _No_.”

In her hands, the candle flares white-hot. Wax melts and begins to drip. Emma yelps and drops it, spilling wax onto her boots and the floor. The blaze continues for another heartbeat or two before dying down into a puddle of melted wax and half an inch of blackened wick.

Regina clears her throat, and gives a little shake of her head, looking grudgingly impressed. “Right. Let’s focus more on finesse.”

 

*  *  *

 

Somehow, after only a week, it’s become routine for Emma and Neal to pick Henry up from the bus and either go to Granny’s for food before dropping him at Regina’s, or take him back to the loft. Emma tries not to resent Neal’s presence – Henry wants him around, so she’s determined that Henry gets to have him around. Still, part of her can’t help but miss the days when it was just the two of them.

She even has some newfound sympathy for Regina, who lost the same thing when Emma came to town.

And it gets a lot harder not to resent Neal’s presence when he brings up the subject of her magic again.

“I asked my dad,” he tells her as they wait on the sidewalk with a few other parents. “He said there _are_ ways to take away someone’s magic.”

Emma shoots him an arch look. “No offence, but I’m not letting Gold anywhere near my magic.”

“Of course not,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying, it’s possible. That’s good news, right?”

“Neal—” Emma lets out a tense breath. She doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not now, and not with him. Even the fact that he discussed it with someone else – Gold, of all people – grates on her.

Neal keeps talking. “Think about it, I mean, you could be—you wouldn’t have to worry about it getting out of control, or hurting anyone. I’m not sure how exactly it works, but we can look into it… and don’t worry, we’ll leave my dad out of it, I don’t want him anywhere near that stuff either. Belle can probably find a book on it or something.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way she used to love. “She’s really good at research.”

“Right,” Emma says, once he winds down. “Thing is, I’m not sure that’s best, you know? I mean, I have magic for a reason, and it’s come in handy so far.”

“As a firelighter?” Neal asks, still smiling. “You know they invented something for that.”

“Oh, yeah, I know.” Emma gives him a look that she hopes conveys exactly what she thinks of firelighters. She’ll never be able to look at the damn things the same way again.

He has the grace to look a little sheepish, hunching his shoulders and looking off down the road for a moment. “Yeah, well, I’m just saying. You don’t need magic for that stuff. You’ve done just fine without it so far.”

“Before I ran into a bunch of fairytale characters and had to rescue my son from Peter Pan, sure,” Emma says wryly. “My life’s a little different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Neal says. Before she can ask him what that means, he goes on, “And not everyone from… back there has magic. Your parents do just fine without it.”

For a moment, Emma is silent, thinking. She’s still not sure that she really belongs in this world, with magic and curses and true love. Some days, she wonders what it would be like if she hadn’t given Henry up, if she just lived a normal life somewhere in Boston or New York. She still feels torn between her old life and this new reality she’s stumbled into, where Snow White cooks her dinner and the Evil Queen teaches her magic and she arrests Captain Hook for trespassing.

But magic is a part of her. It always has been; she just never recognised it. Every hunch, every bit of luck, has taken on a new meaning in retrospect now that she knows that the humming in her veins and the warning tingle at the back of her neck are not normal.

How can she just give up a part of herself?

“I’ll look into it,” Neal says when she doesn’t reply. “I’ll find a way.”

Emma’s jaw clenches. Ahead, the yellow school bus is coming down the street, and she really can’t wait for Henry to get here and break up this conversation with his chatter. “Neal, really, it’s okay.”

“I’ll find a way,” he insists. “And then we can think about it some more and figure it out.”

Emma looks around, mostly to avoid looking at Neal, trying to suppress the frustration that wants to bubble up inside her. And she wants to say it, she wants to tell him that this isn’t a group decision, that she can handle it herself, but she knows what he’ll say. He’s only trying to help. He only wants what’s best for her.

And she knows better than to even _suggest_ that she wants to hold onto her magic, because she knows what he’ll say to that, too. His father was so desperate to hold onto his magic that he sacrificed his own son. It’s a bad sign.

Except it’s different, for her. Her magic is different. It has to be.

But either way, if she argues with him, Henry will get caught in the middle, and that’s the last thing she wants.

Her eyes sweep the street and snag on a figure – a man in a long leather coat, coming towards her along the sidewalk with swaggering, purposeful strides.

Emma’s heart skips a beat. She hasn’t seen Hook since their last run-in at Granny’s – unless she counts one glance from a distance, which prompted her to turn into a side street at random and take the long way home like a coward.

She’s getting really tired of being at odds with people.

And maybe she’s feeling just a little bit contrary. Maybe she’s looking for a fight. Maybe she just wants to change the subject. Maybe she wants to fix something for once, rather than make it worse.

Maybe she’ll invite the pirate for lunch, just to see what happens.

She catches his eye, and tries a smile.

 

*  *  *

 

Avoiding Emma Swan, Killian has decided, is impossible. It isn’t his fault. He can’t be blamed. She’s everywhere he turns.

This time, he runs into her and Neal on the main street of Storybrooke, just as the yellow school bus is coming up to the stop. They’re discussing something as they wait for the lad to arrive, and Emma catches sight of him. Her smile is hesitant, but her greeting is friendly enough, and he returns it. Then Henry is spilling out of the bus and beaming at all of them, and Killian stays for a moment to say hello to the boy and field a few questions about his ship.

“Maybe you can leave the shop talk for Saturday,” Neal says to Henry, smiling but clearly eager to get going. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Henry says emphatically. “Granny’s?”

“You bet, kid.” Emma slants a look at Killian. “Coming?”

It’s the last thing he expects. He looks at Neal, whose face is a study in mixed feelings. “Ah,” he says. “No, thank you.”

Emma frowns. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, love. Couldn’t be better.”

She ruffles Henry’s hair. “Go ahead, will you? I’ll catch up.”

Neal looks unhappy about it, but he walks off with Henry, and once again Killian finds himself alone on the sidewalk with Emma Swan.

“Okay,” she says in her no-nonsense tone. “What is up with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that ever since we got back from Neverland you’ve been…” She waves a hand vaguely. “Weird.”

He shifts his weight onto his other foot, not sure if he should be offended. “I am many things, Swan, but _weird_ is not one of them.”

She crosses her arms. “Argumentative, then.”

He hooks a thumb into his belt and tilts his head. “Just because I don’t always agree with you doesn’t mean I’m argumentative.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can you just—I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“So what changed?” she demands. “And don’t tell me _nothing_. I’m not stupid.”

He knows what she means, and he’s not going to insult her by pretending otherwise. He’s already promised himself that he won’t lie to her, and now that she’s all but asked… He smirks, hooking a thumb into his belt. “Don’t tell me you miss our dalliance, Swan.”

Emma glares at him. “Is that what this is about? Doesn’t seem like your style, playing hard to get.”

“Oh, I’m not hard to get,” he assures her, smirk widening. _He_ certainly has missed this. “Not for you.”

Her lips tighten, but he doesn’t think that he’s imagining the warm tinge to her cheeks. “If that’s not it, what is it?”

He reaches up to scratch at his neck. “I thought it best to step back while you and Neal worked things out.”

“What?” Emma gapes at him. “You—seriously?”

“Aye. For the sake of the boy,” he hastens to add.

“So you just _decided_ that I should be with Neal,” Emma grits out, “because of Henry?”

“No, I merely thought—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Emma snaps, her voice rising. “He gets to decide, you get to decide, everyone gets to decide, and I get to pick up the pieces and just deal with it.”

Killian has the distinct feeling that he’s missing something, like the conversation skipped a few steps and lost him. “What?”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “ _I’m_ the one who gets to decide what’s best for Henry. Me. And Regina. Not you, not Neal, not anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume otherwise,” he assures her, still not entirely sure what she’s so angry about. He wonders if there’s something else at play, maybe something that happened before he ran into her. She didn’t look entirely happy even before she noticed him.

But whatever it was, it seems he’s managed to make it worse.

“Really? So, what, it was a convenient excuse for changing your mind?” A fake smile plasters over the annoyance on her face, but he can still see the anger simmering in her green eyes. “Didn’t take you for a coward.”

He feels the sneer even before he can really think about it. He doesn’t even know what exactly she’s accusing him of, but— “I am _not_ a coward.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Killian becomes aware that, once again, they’ve attracted on-lookers. This time including both of Emma’s parents and Granny, standing some distance away in front of the diner.

_Bloody hell._

He wants to scream. All he’s done is try to avoid ruining another family. Ruining another boy’s chance at a happy ending. He’s trying to do the right thing, and she’s yelling at him for it. Apparently, after everything, she’s still determined to see the worst in him.

“No, I couldn’t have,” he snarls. “Perhaps you’re fooling yourself.”

“To think you actually meant it?” she challenges.

His heart stutters. “Were you hoping I did?”

She narrows her eyes and scoffs a laugh. “You wish.”

Anger and hope and confusion and fear war inside him, but the anger is fastest, supplying the words before he can think about it. He takes a step towards her, close enough that he swears he can feel the heat of her body – or maybe that’s the anger rolling off her in waves. “Not anymore,” he presses out.

Turning his back on her is a grim sort of satisfaction. Striding past people who shrink out of his way is even better. He glowers at nothing, taking refuge in the pirate persona he’s worn for so many years.

But no amount of glowering can wipe the memory of Emma’s expression away. He hates that closed-off look, hates knowing that he put it there, that he hurt her somehow. It’s the last thing he wants, and yet, it’s all he seems to be able to do these days.

He retreats to his ship. He considers his flask, but he knows that if he starts drinking now, he won’t stop until he’s in a stupor. A tempting thought, and one he’s given into many times before.

But it feels too much like giving up. He hurt her. He needs to make it right.

And for that, he’ll need a clear head.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Emma makes it through lunch, and through the rest of her shift at the station, and even through another short conversation with Neal when she runs into him.

She doesn’t make it through dinner with her parents. In fact, she barely makes it through the door before Snow takes one look at her and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Emma says, shrugging out of her jacket.

“Emma.” Snow is looking at her with eyes that see far too much. “I know you. You’re upset.” She turns to David as he comes in after Emma. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” David says, sounding a lot more convincing than Emma, probably because he’s actually convinced of what he’s saying.

“So why is Emma upset?”

“I’m fine,” Emma snaps.

Snow flinches back. “Clearly.”

Now David is frowning at her, too. “Something going on while I was out on patrol?”

“No, I just...” Emma shakes her head. She’s been finding out that it’s a lot harder to pretend everything is fine when the people around you are genuinely interested. She’s also running out of reasons to pretend.

“Emma, what’s going on?” Snow is moving towards her, not put off by Emma’s mood. “You’ve been tense ever since we got back from Neverland. What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just... it’s a lot, you know? With Neal, and Henry, and—” She shakes her head. “Neal thinks I should get rid of my magic.”

Snow frowns. “Is that even possible?”

“Apparently.” Emma shrugs. “I don’t know. He said he’d look into it.”

“And... you’re upset with him for that?”

Emma feels her hackles rise. “He said it’s dangerous. And I guess it is, but I’m learning to control it.”

“He’s probably just worried,” David says in that conciliatory tone he does so well. “Seeing who his father is, who can blame him?”

Emma gives him a look that might be edging into a glare. She’s just about managing not to resent Neal’s presence in Henry’s life. It’s a lot harder not to resent him in her parents’. Every time she sees him laughing over lunch with Snow or talking to her father, her heart gives a painful little tug. “Whose side are _you_ on?”

“I didn’t know we were taking sides,” Snow says, her tone guarded. “Emma, I’m pretty sure Neal is on _your_ side.”

“Of course he is.” Emma feels her self-control slipping away. She tries to grab it back, but the anger is making it difficult.

Snow glances at David, looking unsure. “Maybe he shouldn’t come to dinner tonight...?”

“You invited him to dinner?” Emma demands.

“I thought it’d be nice,” Snow says. “We haven’t really gotten to spend a lot of time together. Quiet time, I mean.” And she didn’t know, Emma reminds herself. She doesn’t _know_.

But it still feels like a betrayal.

“No, go ahead,” she snaps. “You can all have a nice dinner together. I’ll get out of your way.”

“Emma—” David starts.

Her eyes are stinging. “I need some air.”

She grabs her jacket on the way out, slamming the door over her parents’ concerned calls, and runs all the way to her car.

 

*  *  *

 

She heads towards the sea, leaving the car by the road and heading out to a little hill which affords a view of the beach and the nearby harbour. The sun is setting, painting the sky and the water in dramatic orange-red and soft, subtle violet. Emma finds a smooth rock to sit on, tugs her jacket tightly around her shoulders against the wind, and lets out a long, slightly shaky breath.

So much for _home_ , she thinks bitterly. It’s not enough that Neal destroyed it once. Now he’s back, and he’s taking it from her again.

That’s not entirely fair, nor is it true, but she can’t help the thought.

Maybe if she was more open. Maybe if she’d let her parents in when they asked, if she weren’t so hesitant and slow to trust. They don’t know how to deal with her half the time. She’s difficult. And she knows firsthand how easily Neal can fit himself into a person’s life, with his guileless smile and his jokes and that casual air of his.

No wonder her parents love him.

Emma takes a deep breath and looks around. It’s quiet here. She can hear nothing but the distant crashing of the waves, the soft rush of the wind, and the calls of the seagulls. Over in the harbour, she can make out the tall masts and rigging of the _Jolly Roger_ , silhouetted against the sunset.

Her chest tightens at the reminder. She’s really on a roll today. Short of Henry, she’s managed to chase away every single person who might care about her.

She firms her lips against the far-too-familiar recriminations, tries to remind herself that if they let themselves be chased off, she’s better off without them anyway.

She rests her elbows on her knees and buries her face in her palms. She doesn’t feel better off. She just feels lost.

The crunch of sand and gravel under boots has her looking up again, worried that some stranger is going to come up and start asking what’s wrong.

But it’s not a stranger. It’s Neal.

“Hey,” he says, casually innocent, as if he just happened to be strolling by. As if Emma can’t see her father’s truck behind him, parked off the road beside her car.

She bites back a scream. “Hey.”

Neal comes to a stop beside her, looking out at the ocean. “Nice view.”

She doesn’t reply, trying to think of a way to get out of this one, feeling trapped. Once again, he’s got her trapped. She can’t go home without facing a hundred questions, and now she can’t stay here, either.

Her eyes drift over to the _Jolly Roger_ and for a brief, insane moment, it’s almost tempting. Even if it only leads to another argument. At least with Hook, she can be honest.

But after their exchange earlier, she’s no longer sure he’d even let her aboard.

“Your mom said you’re upset,” Neal says after another moment. “I said I’d check on you.”

It’s his way of asking if she’s okay, but Emma has started to notice that he never actually asks. He always leaves himself an out.

“I’m fine,” she says anyway. “Just thinking.”

“Needed some space, huh,” Neal says. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“Sure. My dad means well, too, but he can get a little... you know.” Neal shrugs. “It’s not easy, suddenly living with your parents after spending so long out on your own. Independent.”

_Independent_. It certainly sounds nicer than _abandoned_. It makes it sound like it was her choice. Emma manages not to scoff, and just shakes her head. “That’s not—it’s not that. I just need some space.”

“That your way of telling me to leave you alone?”

Emma sighs. “Neal—”

“No, I get it,” he assures her, although she knows perfectly well that he doesn’t. “I just---I worry about you.”

_I didn’t ask you to. I asked you to leave._ “Neal—”

Movement catches her eye behind him. A dark shape in the sky, barely visible in the dusk. A bird, Emma thinks, except it’s not moving quite right, and it’s hard to gauge the distance, but it seems to be bigger than any bird she’s ever seen around here.

She gets to her feet. “What the hell is _that_?”

Neal turns. “What—?” His eyes widen. “Whoah, what the—“

A shriek pierces the peaceful evening, and suddenly the shape is swooping towards them. And as it passes over her car, Emma realises that it’s almost as big as she is.

“Run!” Neal yells, taking her arm and pulling her away from the creature that’s now almost upon them. Emma breaks into a run, heading down towards the harbour, her mind already racing for a way out of this one.

They’ve barely made it ten feet when there’s another shriek. Emma reaches behind her for her gun. Her fingers have just closed around the handle when there’s a gust of air from behind her, and another inhuman wail. Neal yells. Something bumps into her shoulder with bruising force. Emma has a brief impression of grey feathers and a long tail, and then it’s past her, wings flapping as it heads away from her towards the sea.

And struggling in its grip---

“Neal!” Emma yells, yanking the gun out.

“Emma!” His voice is muffled by the creature’s grip.

Emma tries to line up a shot, but the creature is fast, and Neal’s weight is giving it some trouble. It’s flying as though drunk, and Emma knows that she’s as likely to hit Neal at this range.

Not the gun, then. But that’s no longer her only weapon.

She keeps running after them, trying to remember what Regina has taught her. _Focus, Emma._

But her emotions are all over the place, and while strong emotions usually help, right now they’re just overwhelming her. So far, when she used magic, there was always one that stood out, that gave her purpose.

The creature is flying over the water now. It’s listing to the left, shuddering occasionally as Neal wrestles with its grip, but it’s still going faster than Emma can run. She can see the _Jolly Roger_ just behind it, and has a sudden desperate thought that maybe Hook can intervene, with his knack for doing the impossible.

But the ship is silent. It’s up to her.

She thinks of Henry. She thinks of telling him what happened to his father.

Her magic surges through her, and she brings her hands up.

Light lances out from her palms, shooting into the sky. The creature shrieks again as the light engulfs it.

Then it bursts into flame.

Neal drops like a stone into the water, without a sound.

Her heart skips several beats, and she’s running again, down towards the water. She can’t see Neal anymore, it’s too dark, but he must have hit reasonably close to the _Jolly Roger_. If the gangplank is down, she might be able to spot him from up on deck. At the very least, it’ll be a good place to jump in after him.

She’s only just made it to the pier when there’s movement on the ship. A man leaps onto the railing, steadying himself with the rigging and pausing for an instant before jumping down into the water.

Hook.

Emma’s heart is hammering now, and she leans into her run, until she reaches the end of the pier and sees---

Nothing.

The water is choppy and dark. The waves hit the pier with a constant splash, ropes creak, and there’s the occasional gurgle or hollow thunk of a fender hitting the side of a ship. Emma can’t hear anything beyond that, no shouting or yelling ahead. She looks out into the near-darkness and thinks she sees movement, further out than she’d expected.

She reaches for her boots, but stops. She’s not a strong swimmer at the best of times, and this hardly counts as the best time. Her last attempt wasn’t exactly an unqualified success.

But the memory of jumping off the _Jolly Roger_ into Neverland’s stormy sea does give her an idea, and she turns to run up the lowered gangplank. She digs her phone out of her pocket as she runs.

Her father picks up on the second ring, sounding relieved. “Emma. Listen—”

“No, no,” she cuts him off, looking around the dark deck of the pirate ship. Her eyes light on a coil of rope, and she heads over to it. “I need you down at the docks. Neal’s in trouble. Just... hurry.”

There’s a commotion in the background, but her father’s voice stays steady. “Where are you?”

“Hook’s ship.”

“On my way.”

Emma hangs up and grabs the coil of rope. It’s heavier than she expected, but she manages to hoist it over one shoulder, and heads back down to the pier. She stands on her toes, as if an extra inch or two will make any difference, straining her eyes. But with the sun almost gone, its light just enough to prevent her eyes from adjusting to the darkness, and the waves creating constant movement of their own, it’s all but impossible. “Hook!”

Nothing.

“ _Hook!_ ”

It occurs to Emma that swimming with a hook instead of a second hand can’t be easy. She also has no idea how well he can actually swim; sailors, she’s come to know, generally try to stay _out_ of the water. And he’s definitely reckless enough to jump in after someone without any actual plan.

She yells his name again, fighting down the urge to jump into the water, caution and common sense be damned. Inside, one word is repeating, over and over like a mantra. _No, no, no, no..._

Something moves in the darkness ahead, something that seems at odds with the constant up and down of the waves. Emma leans forward.

There’s a glint of metal. The dark shape in the water moves closer.

“Over here!” Emma yells. The harbour lights are on behind her, so he knows what direction to go in, but she’s not sure if he can see the pier from out there. “Hook!”

It takes another couple of heartbeats before she can really make him out. _Them_ , she amends, catching sight of another head bobbing in the waves. Hook is swimming on his back, his head turned, dragging Neal with him. He doesn’t call out, but he’s heading towards her.

“Hang on!” she shouts, getting a good grip on the rope and trying to judge the distance. “I’m throwing you a rope!”

It takes her two attempts, but she manages to hit his shoulder the second time. He grabs for it, and she pulls him the rest of the way.

“He’s unconscious,” is the first thing Hook says when he reaches the pier, manoeuvring Neal over to the side so she can grab him. “Hurry.”

Emma heaves Neal’s still form out of the water and up onto the pier. She lays him on his back and turns his head to the side, tilting it back while her fingers quest for a pulse. It’s there, faint but steady.

“Is he breathing?” Hook is pulling himself onto the pier, breathing hard, water sluicing from his clothes.

Emma is already checking. It takes another moment, but then she feels his chest rise and fall, hears his breath as she leans over him. It was her magic that knocked him out, she realises, not the water.

“He’s out, but he’s okay,” she says, hoping that it’s true. She rolls Neal onto his side, trying to remember the recovery position. One leg bent, head tilted back...

“Good.” Hook’s voice is rough from exertion. He’s barefoot and apparently shucked his coat before diving overboard; his shirt is clinging to his skin, water dripping from his hair and face. “We should bring him to the hospital.”

“David’s on his way,” Emma assures him. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Fine, love.” His eyes are on Neal. Drops of water cling to his eyelashes. “We need to keep him warm.”

He makes to stand up, but Emma beats him to it. “You stay here, I’ll get it. Where?”

“My quarters, on the bed.”

She’s there and back in record time, grabbing the three blankets she finds. When she makes it back, Neal is still out, and Hook has taken up vigil at his side, kneeling in the rapidly-spreading puddle of seawater. He looks exhausted.

Emma drapes one of the blankets over Neal and tosses another at Hook. He spreads that one over Neal’s prone form, too.

Emma gives him a look. “That one was for you.”

“I’m fine.” He’s shivering, but either he’s not aware of it, or he’s ignoring it.

“Right. Pirates don’t get hypothermia.” She hunkers down beside him, reaching around to wrap the last blanket around his shoulders. “Come on.”

He turns his head to look at her, and with that, their faces are suddenly inches apart. Emma catalogues his features without conscious thought - lips pale with the cold, jaw clenched slightly, drops of salt water still clinging to his skin. A little the worse for wear, soaking wet, but the same solid, reassuring presence as always.

And for one crazy, heart-stopping moment, she doesn’t want to let go of him.

She catches herself and settles for rubbing her hand over his arm as she tugs the blanket around him. Just once. For warmth.

She half-expects another quip, but instead he just grabs one of the corners of the blanket to hold it in place. His eyes are bright in the near-darkness. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Emma has to remind herself to lean back. She looks back down at Neal. “Do you think I should try to—”

“Emma!” David’s voice calls from somewhere to her right. “Emma!”

She jumps to her feet. “Over here!”

 

*  *  *

 

David has commandeered both Leroy’s truck and Leroy himself. Killian finds himself pushed to the side as they carry Neal to the truck without his help. He’s expecting Emma to follow after them, but instead, she grabs his arm.

“You too, buddy.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll believe that when a doctor tells me.”

He tries a grin, although his lips are stiff with the cold and his teeth keep wanting to chatter. “I didn’t think you cared.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re the one who said he doesn’t care.”

“That’s not—” Killian shakes his head. One corner of the blanket slips off his shoulder. He wants to say more – of course he cares, he _always_ cares, much as he tries not to – but the words are lodged somewhere between his heart and the knowledge that Emma doesn’t want to hear them.

She’s already shaking her head, glaring at him. “You can stop playing hero now, okay? Stay here. I’ll get the car.”

It’s the “hero” that shuts him up. He doesn’t protest again; he’s not all that loathe to go to the hospital and learn of Neal’s fate firsthand, anyway. Emma runs to retrieve her car, and he uses the time to strip off his sodden clothes and hurriedly pull on a dry shirt and breeches. His boots are still lying on the deck where he left them, and he’s just managed to pull them on when Emma returns and gestures him into her vehicle.

She drives fast, her shoulders tense and her expression tight as she holds the steering wheel. He’s still freezing cold, a little rigid with the effort not to shiver too much, and he holds his tongue lest his teeth chatter and betray him. Emma slants a look at him as they leave the docks behind, and reaches out to her instruments board to twist some dial, her movements almost vicious. Moments later, warm air washes over his face and legs.

He suppresses a grimace, along with the other, slightly amazed feeling that sneaks into his chest. It’s not often that anyone thinks of his comfort.

Emma reaches down to the stick between the seats and pulls at it, and the car jerks a little before driving on.

“Sorry,” she says, an automatic reaction by the sounds of it. She sounds distracted, and Killian thinks that he knows why.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Swan,” he offers after a moment.

“Who? Neal?” She purses her lips, nods just once. “Yeah, I know. Everyone’s _fine_.”

She sounds almost angry about it. Killian decides not to pursue that subject any further. “Where the bloody hell did that simian come from, anyway?”

She shoots him a startled look. “Wait, what—you’re saying that was a _flying monkey_?”

“Was it not? It certainly looked like one.”

“I don’t know what it was. It just flew at us, grabbed Neal, and... I guess you saw what happened?”

“Aye, that I did.” His mouth quirks. “An excellent shot, I must say.”

She looks surprised at that, although she shakes her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. I knocked him out.”

“You also destroyed the monster that was abducting him,” Killian says with a shrug. “Seems a rather favourable trade to me.”

She huffs out a laugh, but it doesn’t sound amused. “Right.”

They drive on in silence for a while. Killian still isn’t used to travelling by car; it’s an odd feeling, to go so fast on land while inside a vehicle. The world outside feels strangely distant, even as he recognises the familiar buildings of Storybrooke.

Something else occurs to him, something he’s been meaning to ask her. “That term you use,” he says. “ _Buddy_. What does it mean?”

“Huh?” She glances over at him. “Oh, it’s... just something you call people. Like pal. Friend.” Her lip turns up a little. “Mate.”

“Ah.” He hesitates. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

Her eyes stay on the road this time, her shoulders rising slightly in a shrug. “I don’t know. Are we?”

He doesn’t miss the note of provocation in her voice. He’s not sure how to react to it; in the end, he just goes with the truth. “I hope so.”

They arrive at the hospital before she can reply to that, and the distant world outside becomes immediate again, and full of bright chaos.

David is waiting with the news that Neal is still unconscious, but appears to be fine aside from that.

“They’ll tell us the minute he wakes up,” he adds. “What happened?”

“We were attacked by some kind of...” Emma glances at Killian, and he recognises the look. It’s the look she always gets when she’s struggling to accept that something really is part of her world now.

“Some manner of winged simian, by all appearances,” Killian supplies.

They tell David the rest of the story, interrupted only when Emma summons a nurse to come and check on Killian. He protests, although he admits to being a little touched at everyone’s concern, and he doesn’t protest at all when the nurse brings him some water and a blanket. Pride or not, it was a hell of a swim, and the water was cold enough to drive the air from his lungs.

They sit in the rather cheerless waiting area, David beside Emma, Killian two seats further down. He finds that he doesn’t like it much more than the last time he was here, with cracked ribs and a bruised ego. The seats are hard, there is little in the way of decoration, and a faint atmosphere or awkwardness hangs over the room. The television box in the corner is showing some sort of story that seems to involve some very excited people with very shrill voices. The elderly lady sitting across from Killian has her eyes glued to the screen, although she does look up to give them all quite extensive once-overs.

And Killian feels trapped. He doesn’t belong here, in this oddly bright, clean place with the voices coming from hidden places and machines everywhere. If it weren’t for Emma’s insistence that he come along in the first place, and the lingering worry for Neal, he’d be tempted to march right out the door.

Thankfully, it’s only about five minutes before a nurse pokes her head around the corner. “Sheriff? He’s awake.”

David looks at Emma. “You wanna go ahead---?”

“No, it’s fine,” Emma says hurriedly, getting to her feet and glancing at Killian. “Let’s get this o—let’s go.”

They all crowd into the hospital room. Neal is lying on a bed of the kind that Killian remembers well, a faint smile on his face when he catches sight of Emma.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Emma moves closer, although she makes no move to sit. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m good.” He frowns. “What happened? I remember that thing grabbing me and carrying me off, and next thing something hit me and I wake up here.”

“I, uh...” Emma trails off. Neal’s eyes slide to Killian.

“Emma dispatched the monkey, and you fell into the sea. I pulled you back out.”

“Huh.” Neal flashes a faint smile. “Thanks.”

Killian shifts his weight onto his other foot, and tries a grin. “That’s the second time, if memory serves. Let’s not try for a third.”

Neal chuckles. “Deal.” He shakes his head. “So, wait, a monkey?”

“Yeah, apparently we’ve got some new residents around here,” David says. “Good thing Emma’s been practicing her magic.”

All traces of humour and relief vanish from Neal’s face. “What?”

“I used magic to kill it,” Emma says, her tone resigned. It takes on a little fire as she goes on, “I had to, Neal! I couldn’t use my gun.”

“You knocked me out,” Neal says, and it’s not a question. He shakes his head. “Emma... see, this is exactly what I was talking about!”

“I _had_ to,” Emma says again. The look on her face goes straight to Killian’s core, even though he can only see her profile. She’s clenching her jaw, standing her ground, but beneath it, she looks lost.

And suddenly, he knows why she didn’t want to come in here alone.

“You didn’t have to,” Neal argues. “There’s always a choice. And this is what happens when you mess with that stuff. You don’t mean to hurt people, but it happens anyway. That’s what magic does, it’s—”

“I was saving your life!” Emma bursts out.

“Aye, perhaps this isn’t the time to debate the particulars,” Killian adds. It gets him a glower from Neal, but Emma’s stance relaxes just a little, so he counts it a win.

“Look, I’m just saying,” Neal says, his tone carefully casual and almost hiding the resentment. “It wasn’t your fault, Emma. I know that. It just _happens_.”

Emma opens her mouth, but she doesn’t seem to have a reply to that. This subject seems to be something of a point of contention for them, and suddenly, Killian’s own run-in with Emma at lunch makes a little more sense. He was right. He wasn’t the only one who made her angry today.

After a moment, she raises her chin. “They want to keep you in overnight, for observation,” she says, her voice calm again, though there’s an edge of steel in it now. “I’ll call your dad and let him know.”

Neal drops his arms at his side, giving her an appealing look. “Come on, Emma, don’t—”

“Keep me updated so I can tell Henry,” she says, that edge still in her voice. It isn’t pleasant, exactly, but Killian likes it a lot better than the defensiveness from before. “Just text me, or something.”

“Emma—” Neal starts again.

“We should go,” David cuts in, smiling at Neal as he puts a supportive hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Mary Margaret will be worried, and I still need to collect my truck. You rest up, okay?”

Emma takes the cue, pausing to give Neal a short smile, though it seems to lack real warmth. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She leaves the room, David following behind her. Killian hesitates briefly, but he has no desire to be here when the crocodile arrives, and besides, he’s not sure what to say anyway. He settles for a nod before turning to catch up with the others.

“---that was about?” David is saying as he keeps pace with Emma.

Emma has her phone out, not looking up as she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. Hang on, I need to call Gold.”

“I don’t think Neal wants—”

“I don’t care what Neal wants!” Emma snaps. “And I’m _not_ gonna be his emergency contact, because Gold will be offended and everyone will get the wrong idea and just, no. Okay?”

David holds up both hands. “Okay. Sure. Good point, actually, I hadn’t thought of that.”

He turns as Emma talks to Gold, and looks at Killian. There’s something lingering on his face, the expression of a man who’s trying his best with very little idea of what he’s doing. And with a start, Killian realises something that he only suspected, before: Emma does not trust her parents with much more of herself than she trusts _him_.

It’s a sobering realisation. He doesn’t like it one bit. He’s seen enough broken trust and broken families for several lifetimes.

But for this one, at least, there’s still hope.

David is giving him an expectant look. “Are you good to go home?”

“Aye,” Killian assures him. “I’m fine.”

“Right. Come on, we’ll give you a ride to the docks.”

 

*  *  *

 

By the time Emma has driven David and Hook back to where Neal left David’s truck, she has calmed down somewhat. She’s under no illusion that Neal is finished with the subject of her magic, but for now, at least, it’s over.

“I’m starving,” David remarks as she pulls up behind his truck. He pauses as he unbuckles his seatbelt, eyes flicking back to the pirate folded into the back seat before he looks across at her. “You’re coming home, right?”

If it weren’t for the memory of why she’d come down here in the first place, Emma might laugh at the worried look on his face. Magic and fairytales and flying monkeys, and he’s worried about leaving her alone with a boy.

She gives him a smile. “Yeah. Sure. I could really use some food.”

David grins back. “Me too. See you there.”

He actually folds the seat forward for Hook to get out. Out of consideration or a desire to speed things along, Emma can’t be sure.

“Thanks,” Emma says while Hook is struggling to extricate himself from the back without ripping the upholstery along the way. “For the, uh, backup.”

Hook lets out a long breath as he finally makes it out of the car. “Anytime, love.”

Emma grimaces. “Please, no. Let’s not make it a habit.”

“I’m afraid that backing you up has already become something of a habit,” Hook says, a grin sneaking onto his face as he leans down to look back into the car. He pushes the seat back into position, his eyes bright as they meet hers. “A hard one to break, as it happens.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she can’t quite manage to be annoyed. Not when it feels like they’re mending whatever they broke earlier. She’s screwed up enough for one day. “Okay, that one, I think I’m okay with.”

There’s a brief silence; apparently, he wasn’t expecting that.

Ahead, David’s truck roars to life.

“You better get going,” Emma says, clearing her throat. “Before he comes back here to play chaperone.”

She can _see_ the innuendo in the way his eyes brighten, just a little. But he hesitates, and then he says, “He wants what’s best for you, you know.”

She bristles, thinking of Neal, of her father’s none-too-subtle nudges. “He doesn’t know what’s best for me.”

He holds up his hand. “Perhaps not. All I’m trying to say is that I think he’d appreciate it if you start telling him.”

Emma blinks. “What, you a family therapist now?”

“Perish the thought,” he says, in the same dry tone she used. He steps back, hand reaching for the door. “Have a good night, Swan.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You, too.”

He shuts the door and walks away. A moment later, Emma starts the engine and follows her father home, the memory of his nudges towards Neal now joined by the one of him deftly steering her out of the hospital room. Hook wasn’t the only one backing her up today.

Something rises inside her, and she tries to suppress it as she drives along the familiar streets of Storybrooke. But it’s persistent, pushing at her chest, warming her from inside.

She’s no expert, but it feels a lot like hope.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal texts Emma bright and early the next day, to say that he’s being released from the hospital in a little while. He'd love to buy her coffee or a donut to say thanks for yesterday - and can he see Henry today?

Emma growls under her breath and tosses her phone back onto her desk.

“Emma? What’s up?” David asks, looking up at the sound of phone hitting desk.

“Neal says they’re letting him go home,” Emma relays.

David frowns. “That’s... good? Right? He's okay?"

"Back to normal," Emma says, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She's been getting better at controlling her temper, or at least she thought so until recently. Until her ex, the Evil Queen, the Evil Queen’s mother, and a devilishly handsome pirate captain located her nerves and proceeded to get on every single one of them.

David is still frowning. "So why are you annoyed? And don't tell me you threw your phone for joy."

Emma heaves a sigh. "He wants to take me for coffee. To say thanks."

"Oh." David hesitates, clearly unsure of how to ask the next question. Or, Emma thinks, how to ask it without annoying her further.

And that's getting to be pretty annoying, too, this hovering. _Just say it._

The little voice pipes up immediately: it's not like she herself has been great about _just saying_ things lately.

Maybe it's time for her to take a step.

"He wasn't _thanking_ me yesterday," she goes on, glaring at her phone again for good measure.

"Maybe he realised and wants to make it up to you?" David says, but he sounds doubtful. A father's instincts, maybe, or it's just that obvious.

"Uh-huh, sure." Emma gives him a look that says he ought to know better, which he undoubtedly does, if his expression is anything to go by. "We all know Hook's the one who saved him. But somehow I'm pretty sure Neal's not offering to buy _him_ breakfast."

David chuckles. "Now there's a thought. Maybe I'll suggest it to him."

He's joking, but there's a faint note of seriousness behind it, like the idea of setting up Hook and Neal is actually worth considering. It's such a _dad_ interpretation that she can't help smiling. "I don't think they'd go for it."

"More's the pity." David puts down the folder he's been leafing through, and gives Emma an earnest look. "You know, if he's bothering you, I can have a word with him."

Emma's first instinct is to be offended - she can fight her own battles, always has. But it's David. He's not offering because he thinks she can't do it herself. He just doesn't want her to _have_ to.

_He wants what's best for you, you know._

Emma shakes her head, and almost shrugs the entire conversation off. But she’s done a bit of thinking, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to let her father know that the situation with Neal isn’t all sunshine and roses. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just, Henry, you know? Neal wants to see him. But he’s staying with us tonight, and Regina’s got him tomorrow. And I promised him I’d help him with his math, and then a movie...”

David nods thoughtfully. Then he puts down the folder he’s been leafing through, and leans back against his desk. “You guys don’t have a formal arrangement with Neal, right? I mean, there’s no specific days he gets Henry?”

Emma feels her hackles rise. “It’s not like Henry can stay with him,” she says. “I’m _not_ letting him stay at Gold’s. And even if I was okay with it, Regina would never agree.”

“I’m not saying you should,” David says quickly. “I just mean that this whole thing with Neal seems a little... casual. And from what I’m seeing, you’re the one who gets caught in the middle.”

Emma blinks. “What?”

“I might be biased,” David says. “But your mother pointed it out the other day, and from everything I’m seeing, she’s right. Neal wants this, Regina wants that, and you’re the one trying to keep the peace. And stressing out about it.” His eyes are on hers. “Am I wrong?”

Emma’s mouth drops open, just a little. Apparently, her parents are a little more observant than she gave them credit for.

A thought stirs. Mary Margaret – her _friend_ Mary Margaret, the quiet school teacher with the friendly smile – was always observant.

When did she start thinking of Mary Margaret as a completely different person? As a lost friend?

For how long has she been _missing_ that friend?

She clears her throat. “No,” she admits. “You’re right. They don’t exactly get along.”

“Let me guess, Neal doesn’t think the Evil Queen should be raising a kid.”

“And Regina thinks Neal’s a deadbeat dad who thinks he should be in charge just because he suddenly decided to take an interest,” Emma adds with a sigh. “Yeah.”

“Hmm.” David shifts his weight, sitting back on his desk and leaning forward a little. “You know, it’s probably not gonna get any easier. You probably don’t want to hear it, I know, but Emma, you can’t keep this up. I get that he wants to be a part of Henry’s life, but things around here get crazy enough as it is. Henry’s a kid, he needs some stability.”

Emma frowns. “What are you saying?”

David shrugs. “I’m saying that maybe it’s not a good idea to change the plan every time Neal wants it changed,” he says gently. “If Henry’s looking forward to a movie night with you, that’s what he should get. And if Neal wants to be a dad, he needs to understand that. You put your kid first.”

Emma can tell that he isn’t just talking about Henry and Neal. She knows, even if part of her, the deep-down part of her that remembers every betrayal and every broken promise, doesn’t want to believe it yet.

Still. Maybe the pirate really was onto something. Her gut certainly seems to agree.

Before Emma can reply, there’s a commotion in the hallway, and then the dwarves pile into the station. It takes Emma a moment to realise that there’s only six of them – which, as it turns out, is the reason they’re here.

Sneezy is missing.

Emma and David exchange a glance, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing: monsters with wings.

So Emma briefs the dwarves about the events of last night. As soon as Leroy realises that this is potentially serious, he takes over and organises himself and his brothers into teams of two, to begin patrolling and searching the forest around Storybrooke.

“I’ll take the car,” David offers. “See what I can find. And...maybe we should call Regina.”

Emma sighs. “Yeah. And warn people to be careful. I'll head over to Granny's, and then see if I can get hold of Regina.”

David gives her a nod of approval – the lunchtime crowd at Granny’s should be a good start for spreading the word. The dwarves file out after him, and Emma ducks into her office to retrieve her jacket and keys before heading out herself.

 

 *  *  *

 

She gets another text from Neal along the way, but instead of replying, she puts her phone away as she nears Granny’s. Lunchtime crowd or not, it isn’t usually this loud. She can hear raised voices from all the way at the gate.

The scene that greets her inside is unexpected, to say the least. The diner is full of people, most of them turned towards a man Emma recognises: Mr Tanner, from the docks. He’s in the middle of a speech, by the looks of it. Something about the town charter allowing for something.

Granny is standing behind the counter as usual, keeping an eye on the crowd and looking unimpressed. Ruby is serving a lady by the window, who doesn’t seem to be involved at all.

And Hook is sitting on one of the stools at the counter, as far away from Tanner’s crowd as possible, coffee mug in hand. He looks up as she enters, and raises an eyebrow. His lips are curled with wry amusement, but there’s an edge to it, tension lurking beneath his devil-may-care attitude.

Tanner notices her, too, but he just gives her a defiant look before continuing what he was saying.

“Hey,” Emma says carefully as she joins Hook at the counter. Another man is sitting to her left, a little further down, and the glance he sends her way seems almost dark. “What’s going on?”

“May want to keep your distance from me, love,” Hook says, his voice low. “Things are a little _political_ right now.”

“Mr Tanner and his friends want to set up a neighbourhood watch,” Granny says, her tone not any more impressed than her expression.

Emma almost laughs. “In _Storybrooke_? Really?”

“To help with law enforcement, sheriff,” Mr Tanner says, raising his voice a little more. “You know, patrolling, keeping an eye out for trouble, things like that.” He’s speaking to her, but his eyes are mostly on Hook.

Emma’s heart sinks as she finally puts it together. “Right,” she mutters. More petty complaining. Exactly what she _didn’t_ need today. She raises her voice a little. “Right. Well, good. Fine.”

She turns to Granny. “Can I get a coffee?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t say anything while Granny gets her order. Her plan was to talk to Granny, maybe address some of the people in the diner and tell them about the monsters that are apparently flying around. Now, suddenly, the words seem to be stuck in her throat. She's spent a lifetime honing her instinct for trouble, and she knows that Tanner is just looking for an excuse to challenge her. Apparently, her arresting Hook didn't count for much.

Or maybe it's now outweighed by the fact that she let him go, and just joined him at the counter. Close enough to touch – and no doubt he's just as aware of _that_ as she is.

Emma sets her jaw. It's a free country. She can stand wherever she wants. Tanner doesn't get a say in that.

Before she can sort through the politics of the situation and get her own thoughts back in order – a task not helped by the man lounging against the counter beside her – one of the people nearby makes the mistake of mentioning pirates. Specifically, pirate ships, and the need to inspect them for stolen goods.

Emma swears that she can _feel_ Hook’s anger vibrating in the air between them as he stiffens.

“Word of advice,” he says, brows drawn together over flashing eyes. Emma sees the people nearest to him flinch back, just a little. “People who go looking for trouble tend to find it.”

“People who look for stolen goods on pirate ships probably find it, too,” someone says – from somewhere near the back, Emma can’t help noticing.

“Only if the ship’s captain isn’t fast enough,” Hook fires back.

“Okay, whoah, no one is going looking for anything,” Emma says, turning towards the crowd and holding up a hand. She puts the other on Hook’s arm, vaguely hoping that it will come across as calming – or that she'll be ready and able to hold him back. “If something’s been stolen, you can report it to me. Right now.” She raises her eyebrows as she looks around the group.

“Who knows what he’s got on there,” someone mutters.

“I do,” Emma says firmly. “I’ve been aboard.”

“’course you have,” Tanner says, his face speaking volumes as his eyes flick to where her hand is resting on Hook's arm.

She can feel the muscles in said arm flex under her fingers. “Bad choice of words, Swan,” hesays, his voice tight and still simmering.

“When we went to Neverland,” Emma goes on, feeling her patience run out. “To save my kid. Which we did, partly thanks to Hook.”

She looks around the crowd again. How often has she saved this town? How often does she stick her neck out? How many stupid complaints has she had to deal with lately? She’s lost track.

She’s also really, really sick of people dismissing her and her work, or implying she’s not doing her job right. Especially when it’s for their benefit. Some thanks would be nice. Instead, all she seems to get is accusations and confrontation.

“But actually, now that I think of it, a neighbourhood watch sounds like a _great_ idea,” she says, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “You can start right now. The dwarves are already out on patrol, looking for these flying monsters that have been attacking people. You can help.”

That causes a stir. “Monsters?” someone asks.

“Big grey furry things with wings and claws,” Emma says. “Big teeth, too. One of them attacked Neal last night. We saved him, but it was a close thing. So yeah, we could use some extra manpower right now. To warn people, and help patrol and keep an eye out.”

Tanner suddenly looks rather less sure of himself. “Are they dangerous?”

“They’re _flying monkeys_ , mate,” Hook says, his tone questioning the man’s intelligence.

Emma keeps her own voice calm. “Yes, they’re dangerous.”

“And you want us to go _looking_ for them?” someone else demands.

“I thought that was the plan for this neighbourhood watch thing?” Emma asks, giving the man her best guileless look. “For what it’s worth, they’re probably less dangerous than setting foot on the _Jolly Roger_ without permission.”

Half behind her, Hook makes a strangled sound, like he just barely reigned in a bark of laughter.

“As for actually setting anything up formally, that’s the mayor’s business,” Emma adds, the threat of Captain Hook reminding her of the _other_ former villain everyone is more than familiar with. “So you’ll need to take that up with her.”

It seems to be dawning on several people that perhaps, this isn’t what they wanted to sign up for, after all.

_Welcome to the club_ , Emma thinks, a little cynically. Battling magical monsters wasn’t what _she_ thought she was signing on for, either.

“I advise pistols, if you have them,” Hook says as the crowd begins to disperse. Some of the men and women give him cautious looks; all of them seem to be giving him a rather wide berth. “And perhaps avoid the waterfront. The one we faced appeared to have an interest in dragging Neal out to sea.”

“And stay away from the town line,” Emma adds. “If you see anything, report it to the station.”

She knows perfectly well that most of them have lost any interest they had in patrolling, but at least she can be sure that word will spread and people will be careful.

“If I had a hat,” Hook says in a low voice as Tanner leaves the diner, “I’d tip it to you, love.”

Emma tries not to notice the small surge of pride. She _did_ handle this one pretty well, all things considered. Distracting herself from the warmth in her chest is easy when she thinks of the other version of Hook she knows, the one with the perm and the moustache and, yes, the hat. She looks at him, with his mussed short hair and stubble-covered jaw. “Please don’t start wearing a hat.”

He grins. “Noted.”

“Why are you hanging out here, anyway?” Emma asks. “Looking for trouble?”

He narrows his eyes in challenge. “Waiting for laundry.”

He’s serious. Emma’s eyes widen. “What?”

He shrugs. “Sea water doesn’t dry very well, love. So after last night’s inadvertent bath, Ruby was kind enough to introduce me to the _laundromat_.” He pops the last t and looks obscenely proud of himself for pronouncing the word correctly. “Which is currently doing all of the work while I have lunch. This realm truly is full of marvels.”

“Right,” Emma says. No big deal. Just Captain Hook sitting in the diner waiting for the laundromat.

What is her life?

“Almost as good as having a crew again,” Hook goes on. “And with less grumbling.”

“I’ll bet,” Emma says. “So, how’s the ship? Speaking of _crew_ , I mean.” _Smooth, Swan._

Hook looks briefly surprised, but obliges her. “She’s coming along. Still no luck getting that infernal thing out of the sail, but Tink has managed to repair most of the others.”

Something flares in Emma’s chest, and she has to bite back the urge to offer her help – or explain why she hasn’t yet done so. It sounds like Tink has it covered, anyway. And _she_ probably doesn’t have any problems with knocking people unconscious along the way. “Good.”

“All in all, she’s in good shape,” Hook goes on, and it takes Emma a moment to realise he’s still talking about the ship. “Ready to set sail again if needs be, though I’ll be glad of another day or two to work on her.”

“Oh.” That almost sounds like he’s planning to leave. Which, Emma realises, he _said_ he would. It makes sense, too, given the unfriendly welcome he’s been getting from some of the locals. His feud with Gold is over, by all accounts. Henry is safe. All of his reasons for coming here in the first place are gone.

So why has she been assuming that he would stay?

_When I win your heart, Emma..._

But she’s not sure that _that’s_ still on the table. It wouldn’t be the first time someone changed their mind about her after getting to know her a little better.

“Well, good,” she says. “Although I think Henry’ll miss working on it.”

He smiles. “He’s welcome aboard anytime. There’s always something to do.”

He says it casually, but she’s looking into his eyes, and she thinks that she can see a promise in there.

The little crack somewhere in her chest seems to seal back up.

“Here you go,” Granny says, sliding a loaded plate over to Hook. “And one coffee for the sheriff. On the house, for getting that rowdy bunch out of here.”

“You mean your customers?” Emma asks. It’s a little rude, but that doesn’t occur to her until after the words are already out.

But Granny just scoffs. “Please. They already bought everything they were gonna. Just taking up tables and seats towards the end.” She narrows her eyes. “Now tell me about the flying monkeys.”

Before Emma can say anything, the door opens again, this time to admit Regina Mills. She’s looking over her shoulder, probably at one of the departing people, and frowning.

Her eyes find Emma. “Miss Swan,” she says. “I guess that explains the stampede that just greeted me on the way here?”

“Just some concerned citizens,” Emma replies.

Regina’s frown stays in place. “Uh-huh. What's going on? I overheard something about flying monkeys?”

Emma sighs and turns her thoughts back to business. “Yeah. Actually, I could use your help. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with here.” She gives Regina the same run-down she gave Tanner and the others, finishing with, “One of them attacked Neal last night.”

Regina scoffs. “Well, at least they pick the right targets.”

“I’d watch my back, then, if I were you,” Granny quips. Regina glares at her, which has the usual effect, namely none.

“ _And_ Sneezy’s gone missing,” Emma goes on, trying to stay on track. “Could be unrelated, but there’s no way we’re that lucky. Meaning there’s probably more of them out there.”

“So where are they suddenly coming from?” Granny asks. “Flying monkeys aren’t native to this land, or ours.”

“ _Please_ stop calling them that,” Emma says with a groan.

They all frown at her.

“What else do you propose we call them?” Hook asks.

“I don’t know, anything other than _that_! Flying monkeys? Really? It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s accurate,” Hook says.

“It’s also a pretty dead giveaway for who’s behind this,” Regina adds.

Emma makes a face. “Who, the Wicked Witch of the West?”

She means it as a joke, but from their expressions, they all take it at face value. And agree.

“Seriously?” Emma asks. “She’s real, too?”

Hook tilts his head to the side. “Says the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. Have you noticed who you’re talking to, love?”

Emma blinks, and shakes her head. “Okay. Sure. Why not? Except that still doesn’t explain why they’re suddenly attacking people. I’ve never seen one around here before.”

“There shouldn’t be any,” Regina says, a slight frown on her face. “They’re native to Oz, and the curse didn’t affect anyone in that land. I’ve never even been there. So unless we brought some back with us from Neverland...”

“On my ship?” Hook asks. “No one stows away aboard the _Jolly Roger_ without my noticing. Especially not man-sized creatures with wings.”

“Maybe you were preoccupied,” Regina says, a provocative gleam in her eyes.

“Maybe _you_ were preoccupied, if you didn’t even notice where we were,” Hook shoots back. “How many flying monkeys did _you_ encounter in Neverland? Because in all the years I spent there, I never laid eyes on one.”

“Okay, okay,” Emma cuts in. “I’m gonna assume that it wasn’t us. But they’re here. So---" Something else occurs to her. "Wait, why did you bring the Wicked Witch of the West over with the curse?"

"I didn’t," Regina snaps. "I've never met her. I've never even been to Oz."

"You broke the curse, Swan," Hook reminds her. "Making travel to this realm possible again, as proven by yours truly."

"So, what, she rode over here on a broomstick?" Emma asks, mostly to cover the (stupid, ridiculous, pointless) flutter that her chest insists on at _yours truly_.

Regina holds up a hand. "We don't even know that she _is_ here. For all we know, she's back in Oz, plotting... whatever this is about."

"I can't think of many plots that would require kidnapping a dwarf," Hook comments. Emma looks at him. There was something in his tone...

"You think it's a distraction?"

His eyebrow rises. "It stands to reason. The sheriff handles things like disappearances, yes? And it's common knowledge that the Savior is the sheriff around here."

"Meaning I'm the one who'll be busy investigating it all," Emma says slowly, thinking. "You think...?"

"If I had to guess, aye," Hook says.

Emma heaves a sigh. “Great.”

Regina has been looking back and forth between them with a frown on her face. “What?”

“Emma’s magic,” Hook says, as if it’s obvious.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Granny says, smirking and shaking her head.

But Regina’s expression clears. "Light magic," she says. "Of course. She's the Wicked Witch, and your magic is powerful. If it was me, I'd want you out of the way, too."

"Aye, you've a way of foiling a villain's plans," Hook says, and his expression is wry, but there's something softer around his eyes, too.

"Well, I don't have a way to foil this one," Emma tells him. "Let's just start with what we know. Regina, any ideas how we kill these monkey things? Or, like, drive them off, or whatever?”

“As far as I know, they can be killed like anything else,” Regina says. “Guns, swords... magic, which I guess you used.”

Emma winces. “Yeah.”

“I told you,” Regina says. “You need to learn some finesse." She hesitates. "Actually, I've got some time now, if you want to practice. I can show you a better technique for dealing with flying threats."

"Technique sounds good," Emma says. "I just kinda let fly. But I can't right now, I have to help David find Sneezy."

"I can do that," Hook offers. He smirks when she looks at him. "I'm rather good at finding hidden treasure."

Emma snorts. “Sneezy is _not_ a treasure.”

He laughs, a genuine, almost surprised sound, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She was right, before. It’s a nice sound. It’s even nicer when she’s the one who prompted it.

“All the same, love, I’m sure I can render assistance,” he says, still smiling. “I’m rather good at tracking down nuisances, too.”

Emma considers it. She really doesn't like the idea of David and Hook out there without her. On the other hand, if she can get a better grasp of this magic thing, she'll be better able to help when it's needed.

"Okay," she says. "But stick together. Or have him give you a walkie, or something."

His brow furrows – he even manages to make confusion look attractive, damn him. "A what?"

"Just don't wander off on your own without a way to communicate," Emma snaps. "And try not to annoy David, I don't want to have to break up a duel or something."

"Careful, Swan," he says, sarcastic but still smirking. "A man might get the idea that you care."

"Just... call if you need anything. Or find anything. Or whatever."

He sketches a lazy salute. "Aye, aye."

He leaves, swinging his coat around his shoulders as he swaggers out the door. Emma tears her eyes away to find Granny still watching him, unabashed.

"Say what you want, there’s just something about a man in leather,” Granny says with a conspiratorial grin. “Isn’t there?”

"I hope you haven't told _him_ that," Emma says wryly.

“Just as well you don’t care, right?” Granny asks, still grinning.

Emma narrows her eyes at her, which prompts a bark of laughter from Granny.

Regina rolls her eyes, flipping her hair back impatiently. "Can we go?"

"Yeah," Emma says, grabbing her coffee cup. "Let's do that."

 

*  *  *

 

Emma spends the next two hours with Regina, trying to master the art of hitting a target without completely destroying everything around it. She's not sure whether it's because she now has an imminent threat to work against, or if something else hs changed, but it goes a little easier. Regina's instructions seem to make more sense than usual, and by the end of the lesson, Emma manages to knock over the wooden statue without also knocking back the table it's standing on.

Progress.

She picks up Henry from the bus and meets David, who doesn't have good news.

"No sign of Sneezy," he says in a low voice. "And we have another missing persons report."

Emma grimaces. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing. Hook says he'll keep an eye on the docks. I left him one of the walkies, but I'm not sure it'll work at this range."

"He needs to get a phone or something," Emma says.

"Who needs a phone?" Henry interrupts, turning to walk backwards.

"Hook," Emma says. "I get that he's a bit old-fashioned, but I'm not gonna talk to him by carrier pigeon."

"Pirates use parrots," Henry corrects her. He scrunches his nose. "Or maybe seagulls? Parrots might be for something else."

"Either way, I'd rather trust a phone," Emma says. "Come on. It's the second _Star Wars_ movie tonight, right?"

"Episode 5," Henry says. "Technically the second, but chronogi—chronoli—“

“Chronologically?” David suggests.

Henry nods. “ _Chronologically_ it’s the fifth."

"Obviously." Emma reaches over to ruffle his hair and drape her arm over his shoulder as they walk towards the loft.

 

*  *  *

 

Henry does his best to convince her that they need to watch the opening of the next movie too ("Only until they rescue Han! We can't just leave him in carbonite!") but Emma stands her ground this time. She's right; he's out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow, the excitement of Neal and flying monkeys and everything catching up to him. Emma stays up a little longer, but she's too tired to do much except sit and listen while David and Snow talk about magic and and the Wicked Witch of the West and how Captain Hook is actually kind of good at the whole search-and-rescue thing (this last said rather grudgingly by David, and only when asked by Snow).

("He learned it so he could track down ships and take hostages, Snow, I can deduct points for that.")

Emma lies awake for a long time that night, her thoughts circling around flying furry monsters and neighbourhood watches and the rush of magic through her veins and her hand on Hook's arm and the knowing look in Regina's eyes when she suggested bringing the pirate in for target practice instead of another vase.

She's half-dozing, her thoughts swirling into oppressive dreams that she can't quite seem to break through, when a sound startles her out of it. A gasp, followed by a whimper. A child's voice.

"Mom?"

"Henry?" Emma is up in a flash, crossing over to where Henry is half-sitting up in bed, his hair sticking up and his breath coming fast. "What's wrong?"

"I---" He breaks off and tries again. "Bad dream." And he's trying to sound like it doesn't matter, but of course it does, and Emma doesn't want him to pretend.

She sits down on the bed and pulls him into a hug. "Tell me?"

It takes a moment, but then Henry takes a deep breath. "I was in the room again," he says. "The fire room. I mean, I wasn't there, not really. I've still got the charm."

He digs out the necklace that Gold gave him to protect him from the fire room, and lifts it up to show her. "But it was exactly like it. I couldn't get out. And I saw..."

Emma squeezes his shoulders. "What?"

"I saw Mom," Henry says, in a small voice. "She was on the other side of the flames. I thought she'd help me, so I tried to get over there, but..." He takes another deep breath. "It was her. She was making the fire."

Emma swallows hard.

"And then I woke up," Henry says. He pauses. "I wasn't scared of the fire. Not really. But it was _my mom_."

“It was just a dream, kid,” Emma says. “Just your brain trying to process everything that’s happened lately.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me,” Henry says, burrowing his head into her shoulder. And it’s a statement, but Emma thinks she can hear a tiny little question mark hovering somewhere at the end of it.

“No, she wouldn’t,” she says, as firmly as she can, making a mental note to talk to Regina about this as soon as possible. Henry is just old enough to try and pretend that he’s not scared, but after the kidnapping and everything that happened in Neverland, it would be a miracle if he wasn’t. And if he needs a little extra reassurance, that’s what he’ll get.

“It was a nightmare,” Emma goes on. “It wasn’t real. Regina would protect you from anything that tries to hurt you. And so would I.” She squeezes his shoulders again, pulls him a little tighter against her. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He holds on for another while. “I don’t wanna go back to sleep.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Emma says. “I could read you a story?”

“Yeah.” Henry pulls away from her and reaches over for his book, sitting on his nightstand as always. “The one where Gramps wakes up Grandma. Like in _Star Wars_.”

Emma chuckles. “They have True Love’s Kiss in _Star Wars_?”

“No, but Princess Leia wakes up Han Solo when she—”

“Whoah, kid, spoilers,” Emma says, nudging him lightly as she reaches to take the book from him. “Okay, let me find it...”

 

*  *  *

 

The day after he gets out of the hospital, Neal gets up early to head back to the library. He spent almost the entire past day there, looking through book after book and trying not to notice how utterly silent his phone remained. From the sympathetic looks Belle kept giving him, he didn’t do a great job.

He hasn’t seen Henry, or Emma, or anyone else. Emma, apparently, is busy investigating the whole flying monkey thing, at least that’s what her brief text said.

But he saw her walk down the street with Regina, and he has the worst suspicion that this incident has only spurred her desire to learn _more_ magic.

He gets back to his research. There has to be a way to get rid of the damn stuff. He has to find it. He has to get Emma and Henry away from all of this. Because the next time, the monsters might not come for him. They might come for his son.

And Neal knows, by now, that there will _always_ be a next time.

The library is surprisingly well-stocked, but so far, all that means is a lot of useless books to go through. The internet, so far, has been equally useless; plenty of information about magic, most of it contradictory and, as far as he can tell, made up. For the first time, he wishes he were back _home_ , with the library Belle has told him about at his disposal. But Henry told him about the story book, and he hasn’t given up hope yet that maybe, just maybe, there are other books that made it over with the curse.

 He’s returning to his table with his third lot of books when he realises that he’s no longer alone. A woman is sitting at the next table over, perusing a book he can’t identify.

She looks up as he approaches, her blue eyes startling as they meet his. She’s beautiful, her long, wavy auburn hair framing a delicate face with full red lips, and her smile is bright and open and almost sparkling.

“Good morning,” she says.

He lifts a hand, feeling a smile stretch across his own face. “Hey.”

She looks at the stack of books and notes surrounding the laptop on his table. “You seem a little... overwhelmed.”

He barks a laugh, dropping into his chair. “Yeah. Lots of information to sift through, and when I do, there’s not a lot left.” He nods towards her. “How about you?”

“Me? Oh, just a little light reading.” She lifts her book in emphasis, and Neal realises that it doesn’t look like any of the other books he’s found here. It doesn’t look like it’s from this realm at all. “A little magical history.”

“Magical—” He feels his eyebrows rise. “You study magic?”

Her smile turns shy. “Sort of. I’m something of a historian. Just a hobby, really.”

For the first time in days, Neal feels something like hope stir in his chest. If she found that book here, maybe there are others. Better yet, maybe she knows something. “Maybe you could give me some pointers?”

She brightens. “I’d love to! I mean, if I can.”

“I’d appreciate it.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Neal.”

She takes it. Her grip is gentle, her skin soft and warm. “Nice to meet you, Neal. My name is Zelena.”


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a sunny, cold morning, the air crisp with the far-off promise of snow, and Killian is engrossed in repairing the last of the rigging with some rope he found below deck. It’s repetitive precision work, but he’s always found it calming, his mind free to wander while his hand and hook are busy untangling torn rope and tying knots he could do in his sleep.

The contraption that David Nolan termed a _walkie-talkie_ is lying on the deck nearby, but so far, it hasn’t made a sound. He’s not sure that it ever will. The damn thing hardly looks trustworthy. He does not like the idea of it replacing an actual visit to the sheriff station to have an actual conversation with someone.

Not that such a visit is necessarily in the cards. He hasn’t heard from anyone since yesterday, and he’s _not_ going to traipse all the way over to the station just to offer his help. Emma might not even be there, anyway, and then he’d be dealing with David again.

Although, to be fair, the prince is not the worst company, either. He’s almost friendly towards Killian these days, and even when he’s not, the fun of antagonising him makes up for it.

And he _is_ technically a citizen of this town right now. And there _are_ flying monkeys about. And the sheriff station _is_ the logical place to go for information.

 So he won’t _traipse_. But he might casually wander over there. Later. This evening, perhaps, or sometime in the afternoon. Or after lunch.

“Hey! Ahoy!” a young voice calls, drawing Killian out of his thoughts. It’s followed by excited footsteps clattering up the ramp. Henry appears moments later, dark hair mussed and face split in a wide smile.

Killian looks up from his work. “Ahoy there,” he says, unable to hide a smile of his own.

He glances over the boy’s shoulder, but there’s neither sight nor sound of anyone else. “What brings you here, lad? Where’s your father?”

“Uh, he’s busy,” Henry says. “He said I could go on my own.”

Killian has spent most of his life among liars and cheats, and he can spot a runaway a mile off. Even one as cheerfully guileless as Henry. There’s no way Neal would let Henry come all the way down here, especially not after the incident the other day. “Did he, indeed,” Killian says slowly. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve no task for you today, lad. But I’ll accompany you back to—”

“That’s okay,” Henry assures quickly. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. A favour.”

Not just a runaway, then. A runaway with a purpose. “Oh?”

“Can you teach me to fight?” Henry asks. “With a sword?”

Killian’s first thought is to agree. His second is a reminder that the lad is likely here without permission. His third is a vision of Emma’s face when she finds out that he put a sword into her son’s hand, and let him wield it. “Ah, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s okay, my dad’s been teaching me,” Henry says earnestly. “Grandpa, too.”

“So why seek me out?”

“Because you’re _better_ ,” Henry says impatiently. He’s right, of course, but Killian hopes rather fervently that he hasn’t voiced that opinion to either Neal or David. “You’ve faced Maleficent and the Dark One...”

“Hardly unqualified successes,” Killian reminds him, holding up his hook. “Though admittedly not on account of any fault in my swordsmanship.”

“Exactly,” Henry says. “You know how to fight against magic. I want to learn.”

Warning bells go off in Killian’s head. “Any particular reason for that ambition, lad?”

Henry hesitates, but he’s not old enough yet to hold back much. “I just think it’d be good if I could defend myself. You know. Just in case.”

Killian plays a hunch. “I believe both of your mothers are more than capable of protecting you.”

And there it is: the flinch. A tiny little crack in a child’s trust. There’s a painful squeeze in Killian’s chest.

“I know,” Henry says – casual, but like he wants to believe it.

Killian seizes on that. “Did Emma tell you what happened the other day?”

“She said you guys saved my dad from a flying monkey.” Henry scrunches up his face. “See what I mean about magic? My dad says it’s dangerous, and he’s got a point.”

“Magic is what saved your father,” Killian reminds him. “Just as it saved you from Pan in Neverland.”

Henry gives him a narrow-eyed look that’s far too clever for an eleven-year-old. “I didn’t think _you_ liked magic.”

“It rather depends on who’s wielding it,” Killian says. “Or what they’re doing with it.”

“My mom’s done some pretty bad stuff,” Henry murmurs. “Regina, I mean.”

“Aye, that she has.” Killian hesitates. “But so have I. Without magic.”

Henry squints at him.

“Now, Emma, on the other hand,” Killian goes on. “Nary a bad deed to her name. She broke the curse. She bested Cora. She saved me, and you.”

Henry just nods.

“Trust me when I say this, lad,” Killian says, looking intently at him until he meets his eyes. “I’ve done battle with all manner of magical beasts. I’ve no love for magic, I assure you. If anyone could find cause to mistrust someone with magic, it would be me. So when I tell you that I trust Emma with hers, I want you to understand my full meaning.”

The boy hesitates, but he doesn’t look away. Then he nods. “Okay.”

“And Regina, too,” Killian adds. “She may not have Emma’s track record, but she has good intentions, especially when it comes to you. If I recall right, it was she who protected your heart so it can’t be taken.”

Henry nods again.

“Now then,” Killian goes on. “I can’t teach you how to fight magic, but I can teach you to wield a sword, if you still wish that. But we’ll start with sticks, I think.”

The lad’s eyes light up, but then he falters, and scrunches up his face again. “Uh, maybe another time. My mom... Regina sort of thinks I’m at the library. With my dad.”

“Ah.” Killian keeps his expression serious. “Perhaps I could walk you home, and talk to her?”

Henry looks cautiously relieved. “That’d be good.”

Killian grins and gets to his feet. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Regina’s reaction will be, but that’s all right. It’s been _days_ since he’s been at odds with a woman in this town, after all. It’s overdue, really.

“Come on, then,” he says, tugging his vest into place before checking that his sword is riding at his hip. “Let’s face the music.”

 

*  *  *

 

Emma is waiting for her coffee at the counter when the diner door all but flies open, and Henry bounces through it. He’s immediately followed by Regina Mills in full-on fury mode. She’s hiding it, but Emma can see it in her stance, even before their eyes meet.

 “Emma,” Regina says, and the forced friendliness in her tone is definitely for Henry’s benefit. “Can I talk to you?”

“Uh...” Emma glances at Henry, who grins at her and joins her at the counter. “Sure?”

Regina nods and puts a hand on Henry’s shoulder as he settles onto a stool. “How about a hot chocolate?”

Henry makes a face. “This is gonna be one of those wait-till-the-grown-ups-finish-their-talk things, isn’t it? I could wait down at the _Jolly Roger_. Or the sheriff station with Grandpa.”

“You’ve done enough adventuring today, young man,” Regina says sternly. “You’re staying right here. This won’t take long.”

 Granny has been standing a few steps away behind the counter, a scowl on her face, but she seems to hear the same protectiveness behind Regina’s stern tone that Emma has noticed, and relaxes. “You can help me with something,” she tells Henry. “Got a fresh batch of blueberry muffins just about ready to come out of the oven. If you give me a hand, you can have the first one.”

Henry’s eyes light up. “Okay!”

With Henry safely occupied, Emma follows Regina to the back of the diner, and crosses her arms. “All right, your Majesty, you want to tell me what this is about?”

Her tone is, admittedly, not her most diplomatic. Regina rounds on her. “Don’t even start. I just spent the better part of an hour trying to talk to Henry after the pirate brought him back—”

Emma’s eyebrows rise. “Hook?”

“No, the _other_ pirate we keep around here,” Regina snaps. “Of course, Hook.”

“What the hell was Henry doing with Hook, I thought he was with you?”

Regina huffs out an impatient breath. “He was. But he said he wanted to help his dad with something in the library, so I let him go. I didn’t realise he was planning to run away. I thought we were past that.”

Under her annoyance, she seems genuinely upset. Emma purses her lips. “Did he say why?”

“No. Hook told me. Apparently, he wanted to learn how to fight, because apparently, _someone_ has been putting all kinds of nonsense about magic in his head.”

Emma feels her hackles rise. “Not me.”

She didn’t notice the apprehension in Regina’s eyes until it fades, and the other woman nods curtly. “I thought so. So it _was_ your—” She waves a hand. “Whatever he is. Henry’s _father_.” She spits the word. “You’d think he’d know better than to try and terrify his own son. I mean, I’ve made allowances, I agreed to share custody, and I did it because I want what’s best for Henry. But this? This isn’t good for him, Emma.”

Emma’s stomach drops as Henry’s nightmare from last night suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. “Neal’s been talking to Henry about magic?”

“Apparently,” Regina says. “Or he overheard it. And I think we all know how _Neal_ feels about magic.” She glares at Emma. “Look, if you want the guy around, fine. But tell him to stop talking like that around my son.”

Emma tries. She really does. But she’s running on about four hours of sleep, her anger at Neal is rising again, and at Regina’s accusatory tone, her temper just snaps.

“Why don’t _you_ tell him?” she demands. “He’s not _my_ anything.”

Regina laughs, a humourless sound. “Right, that’s why you let him push you around.”

Emma glares at her, momentarily at a loss for words. How _dare_ she—?

“And that’s your business,” Regina goes on. “But I’m not letting Henry get dragged into it.”

“You think _I_ want that?” Emma counters. “I was up half the night trying to calm him down after that nightmare—”

Regina stills. “What nightmare?”

Emma suppresses a sigh. So much for finding a way to bring that up quietly. She brushes a hand across her temples, and tells Regina everything.

And for a moment, Regina’s angry expression fades into something worse. She looks _stricken_.

“He can’t think I’d hurt him,” she whispers.

“I told him you wouldn’t,” Emma says, her voice low, willing Regina to believe her. “Trust me, Regina, I don’t want him to be scared of you any more than you do. And... you’re not the only one with magic. We need to fix this. Together.”

The broken look disappears again as Regina draws herself up. Her chin comes up, her eyes blaze, and her jaw is set, her anger once again overruling everything else. Emma recognises the look: a mother ready to do whatever it takes to protect her child.

She knows the feeling.

“Fine.” Regina’s voice is icy steel. “I’ll talk to Neal.”

She gives Emma a challenging look. Emma meets it, and shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

Regina hesitates another instant. Then she lifts her chin a little more, waves her hand imperiously, and disappears in a puff of purple smoke.

For a moment, Emma stands there, staring at the space she left behind, willing her fists to unclench. So much for keeping the peace.

And she knows Neal didn’t do it on purpose. She knows he wouldn’t want to scare Henry. Hell, she’s not even sure he’s entirely wrong.

But it still feels like a betrayal.

She makes her way back into the diner, where Henry is tearing into a steaming blueberry muffin and chatting to Ruby. Emma’s coffee is waiting for her. And she should be getting back to the station, but she can’t leave Henry here. Or rather, she doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” she says, nudging him as she settles onto a stool beside him. “You okay?”

“Yep.” Henry looks up at her, then around the diner. “Where’s Mom?”

“She had an errand to run,” Emma says. “She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Henry grimaces. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” Emma wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “But Henry, no more running away, okay? Especially not right now. If you want to go down to the docks, you ask one of us. It’s not safe for you to go alone.”

“Yeah.” Henry picks at his muffin. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“When you use magic,” he says, “it’s not... I mean, you tell it what to do, right? And it does it?”

“Yeah.” Emma makes a face. “Well, mostly. I’m still getting the hang of it.”

“I know _that_ ,” Henry says. “I meant, it’s not like... it doesn’t have a will, right?”

“No.” Emma knows where he’s going with this, now, so she goes on, “It’s more like a tool. Like driving a car. You tell it where to go, and it goes. You tell it to stop, and it stops. It doesn’t have a mind of its own.”

Henry nods, slowly. “After the curse, I wanted my mom to stop using magic. I thought it was making her bad. I thought if she stopped... but it wasn’t the magic.”

Emma shakes her head, hating that tone in his voice. He shouldn’t be part of this. He shouldn’t have to worry about this.

“No. But she _isn’t_ bad, Henry. She’s done some bad stuff, sure, but she’s changing. She helped us save you. She loves you.”

“I know.” Henry blows out a breath, and for a moment, they both sit in silence, eating blueberry muffin. It’s good, still warm from the oven, sweet with just a hint of tartness from the berries.

“You don’t have to worry about magic, Henry,” Emma says. “But if you want, I’ll stop using it.”

“Don’t you need it? For the flying monkeys?”

Emma reaches for his hand, firmly ignoring the ridiculousness of the fact that _flying monkeys_ are her current problem. “We can figure something out.”

“It’s okay.”

“I mean it,” she insists. “If it makes you uneasy, I’ll stop. Just say the word. Okay?”

His hair falls across his face as he shakes his head. “No, you’re using it to protect people. I trust you. Even Hook trusts you, and he doesn’t even like magic. It’s okay.”

Emma’s eyebrows rise. “Hook... what?”

“Trusts you. With magic,” Henry explains, completely unaware of the way Emma’s heart gives a little leap. “That’s what he said. _And_ he said I could come back for sword practice sometime, if you’re okay with it. Can I?”

Emma’s mind is still stuck on the thought of Hook backing her up like that, and what that means. She knows he’s not a fan of magic. Henry seems to know that, too. Whatever he told Henry, it seems to have reassured him already; all she just did was to confirm it one last time.

And she doesn’t have to deal with Neal, either, because Regina is doing that.

Maybe she really doesn’t have to do everything by herself anymore.

But she’s thought _that_ before. She knows better than to think it again. Instead, she smiles at her son. “Don’t tell me you want to turn pirate on me, kid.”

Henry grins. “Arrr.”

Ruby, just returning from serving another customer, overhears him and laughs. “Easy there, _mate_. Your grandpa would have a fit.”

Granny, meanwhile, comes over and looks at Emma. “Everything okay?”

Emma nods. She still has a dozen problems and potential problems to deal with, but Henry is smiling and chatting to Ruby about pirate ships and sword practice and no longer looking worried at all. “Yeah,” she says. “Fine.”

“Where’s Regina?” Granny asks.

“Gone to talk to Neal.”

“ _That_ should go well,” Granny comments, her eyes glinting.

Emma winces. “Yeah. I should probably go check—”

“ _You_ should have your coffee,” Granny cuts her off. “Let them yell at each other for a bit. She’ll let off some steam, and with any luck, knock some sense into him.”

With a start, Emma realises that the older woman looks almost _proud_. She shakes her head. “I just hope she doesn’t set him on fire or something.”

Granny waves that concern away. “She won’t. It’ll be fine. Here, have a muffin. Fresh from the oven.” Her eyes meet Emma’s.

“Thanks,” Emma says slowly.

“Trust her,” Ruby adds with a grin, turning away from Henry. “Granny’s an _expert_ on conflict and confrontation.”

Granny scowls at her granddaughter. “And you’re too sassy for your own good.”

“Learned it all from you,” Ruby says breezily, stopping to pat Granny on the shoulder before sauntering out from behind the counter with another order.

Henry laughs. So does Emma, even though Granny’s remarks have brought another twinge of guilt.

Because letting Regina go yell at Neal is definitely _not_ the way to keep the peace.

On the other hand, her father was right: she can’t keep absorbing the hits from both sides. Maybe it’s better to get it all out in the open, and figure out where to go from there.

They’ve done it before, after all. And while the aftermath of the Echo Caves wasn’t pleasant, their secrets didn’t destroy them. They dealt with it.

Sort of.

Emma’s thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, because the man striding through it is Killian Jones. His hair is windswept and sticking up more than usual, and Emma thinks that he looks a little worried, his jaw set and his brow furrowed in apprehension.

He also looks good, in that dark, slightly dangerous way that always tempts her to have another look. That isn’t news, but it still _feels_ like news every time, much as she tries to persuade herself that she’s used to it. Over it.

Whatever.

He notices her immediately, his eyes latching onto hers like they always seem to. “Swan.”

“Hook.”

“Hey captain!” Ruby calls, a smile on her face. “Just in time. Henry was just telling us how he’s going to be a pirate.”

Hook regards Henry, who is engrossed in helping Granny pick out a new muffin recipe to try. “That may not be the best career choice when your mother is the sheriff, lad.”

“Sheriffs don’t catch pirates,” Henry says confidently, before turning his attention back to the recipe book.

Hook grins and shakes his head. And then he turns back to Emma, a glint in his eyes. “Oh, I think they do.”

Emma is under no illusion that he’s talking about police work. Not this man, who talks about winning hearts and _until I met you_ in that soft tone, who looks at her with those blue eyes of his like he might _mean_ it. She has to fight the urge to fidget. It’s difficult, especially since she still has no idea where they stand these days. He all but said that he was giving up, but she’s not sure anymore that she didn’t misread that entire argument.

She’s also getting really tired of replaying it in her head, looking for answers.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice dry. “I’ve arrested more than my share of pirates.”

“Share?” He gives her a betrayed look, his eyes still glinting. “And here I thought I was the only one.”

“You are, but you cause enough trouble for at least three,” Emma assures him, biting back a smile.

Mirth is dancing in those blue eyes of his, and he steps closer to her, leading with his hips. “Only three? I shall endeavour to do better, love.”

The urge to fidget wins out, and she shifts her weight to her other foot. It brings her swaying just a little closer to him. She recovers by crossing her arms. “Worried you’re losing your touch?”

His grin widens. “I assure you, love, there’s nothing wrong with my touch.”

_I’ll bet._ Emma narrows her eyes, although the effect is probably lost with the way her lips keep trying to curve up. “Yet.”

He laughs and shakes his head, conceding defeat and dropping the swagger all at once. He looks delighted.

It’s moments like this that give her glimpses of the real Killian Jones, the man hiding under all the charm and innuendo, the man who takes delight in her threats and her victories and her company and doesn’t seem to mind if his ego takes a hit or two for it. It’s moments like this that are dangerous.

And she really needs to stop thinking about his _touch_.

Her phone rings.

Emma starts, almost drops her coffee, and curses. If this is Neal, or Regina...

But it isn’t. It’s David, and she feels all remnants of her smile drain from her face as he talks. “ _Really?_ Yeah, yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Hook has been watching her, and he looks concerned again. “Bad news?”

Ruby is looking at her, too – and Emma realises belatedly that she probably witnessed the entire exchange between her and Hook. But if she was amused by it, she doesn’t look it now. “Everything okay?”

“There’s been another attack,” Emma says, grabbing her keys from where she left them on the counter. “I gotta go.”

She pauses, looking at Henry, wondering if she could ask—

“He can stay here until Regina gets back,” Ruby offers.

Emma nods. “Thanks.”

Hook turns with her as she moves past him. “Can I help?”

Emma doesn’t think about it. She reaches out to tug at his arm before heading to the door. “Come on.”

 

*  *  *

 

“Where are we going?” Killian asks, moving to fold himself into the passenger seat of the car. He abandons the attempt immediately when he realises that the vehicle was not built to accommodate the scabbard at his side, his hand going for the buckle of his sword belt to take it off.

“Town li—whoah, what are you doing?”

Killian bends down to find her looking up at him, or rather, his midsection. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open slightly, and he realises that her lack of familiarity with his realm’s clothing has led her to entirely the wrong conclusion. He can see the realisation in her eyes as they move to meet his – and they lingered, he’s almost sure of it.

He flashes a grin.

“Don’t get too excited, love.” He finishes unbuckling the belt and wraps it around the scabbard as he drops into the seat beside Emma.

She’s recovered already, rolling her eyes before turning her attention to the steering wheel and the complicated process of starting up the car. “It takes more than _that_ to get me excited.”

“I should hope so.” He wrestles the safety belt around himself, his arm brushing against hers as she shifts gears. “And I’m happy to oblige you, you need only say the word.”

She doesn’t look at him, her eyes on the road as they pick up speed, but he sees her mouth twist like she’s trying not to smile. “In your—no.”

“In my what, Swan?”

“Nope, not gonna say it.”

He affects surprise. “Why ever not?”

“Because you’d agree with me.”

He can’t seem to get the grin off his face. “Oh, aye, we can’t have _that_.”

Emma shakes her head, and she’s losing the battle with that smile. “Yeah, you might ruin your reputation if you go around agreeing with the sheriff all the time.”

“It’ll take a lot more than that, love,” Killian assures her, keeping his tone light despite the bitterness that wants to rise up. “I’m a pirate.”

“I don’t know,” Emma says thoughtfully, that smile still lurking at the corners of her lips. “Siding with the sheriff, risking your life for the greater good... not very piratical.”

He scowls. It all sounded very grand at first, the thought of being seen as a man of honour again, the thought of Emma seeing him as such.  But that was before the Echo Caves forced him to lay all his cards on the table, and left him defenceless, vulnerable, at her mercy.

He needs the pirate to counter that.

His fingers twist and turn the scabbard belt in his hand, creasing marks into the leather. The safety belt presses into his chest, holding him down. He wants to tear his hook through it.

He’s _not_ some kind of selfless hero. He’s a pirate with a violent temper and a hook for a hand and a stubborn belief in good form. “I do not risk my life for the greater good.”

“No?” She glances at him, her expression far too knowing. “Then why are you coming along to save Doc or fight flying monkeys?”

“Doc was attacked?” he asks. “Perhaps those simians really do have a vendetta against dwarves.”

“Sure, let’s change the subject,” Emma agrees pleasantly, and laughs at the narrow-eyed look he slants at her. “Yeah. Leroy called David to say Doc was attacked, out in the forest. David’s on his way already, we’re meeting him there.”

“Excellent,” Killian says, even though he doesn’t relish the prospect of the dwarves’ company. He’s never really seen eye to eye with them, and the fact that it’s hard not to make a height joke about that doesn’t help matters. “I do hope it’ll be more eventful than last time.”

David looks briefly surprised to see him when they meet on the road outside town, but he says nothing, turning his attention to briefing them on the situation.

It turns out that another one of the dwarves has been taken – and if they needed any more evidence that the disappearances were due to flying monkeys, this would have been it. The remaining five dwarves are clustered around David, casting nervous or angry glances at the forest to either side of the road.

“It just came out of nowhere and grabbed him!” Happy exclaims, not looking very much like his moniker.

“Right here?” Emma asks.

Happy nods.

Emma glances at her father. “And there’s the town line,” she says, pointing a few metres away to the paint on the road. “Coincidence?”

David shrugs, but he looks doubtful. “We’re not that lucky.”

“We need to find Doc,” Leroy says, scowling as he always does. “Sooner the better.”

“If it carried him through the air, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack,” Killian says. He tilts his head, reconsidering. “Or rather, half a needle.”

Leroy glares at him. David casts his eyes skyward. Emma gives Killian an admonishing look.

He backpedals. “I only meant it won’t be easy to track him.”

Emma holds his gaze for another heartbeat, eyebrows raised, before turning back to Happy. “Which way did they go?”

Happy points into the forest.

Emma nods. “Let’s go.”

They fan out, careful not to lose sight of each other as they search the nearby forest for any sign of the dwarf, or a struggle. It’s unfamiliar terrain for Killian – he can read the sea and the sky without second thought, but he’s never much cared for forests. The trees have a way of pressing in, obscuring the sky, making him feel trapped. Storybrooke’s forest is mercifully light, at least, the trees mostly bare and far enough apart to let the sun in.

Even so, it’s oppressive. Especially given the danger lurking somewhere in the dark depths of the damn place.

“Think I got something!” Emma calls from somewhere to his right.

It’s blood, as it turns out, smeared over the leaves of what Killian thinks might be a holly bush. He peers at it. “It’s fresh,” he says. “An hour at most.”

David is already running again, leading the way further into the forest. But he comes to a halt even as Killian makes to follow him, and turns back.

“Over here!”

And it really is the dwarf, lying motionless on the muddy ground, pine needles in his hair and clothes. He’s bleeding from a shallow gash in his side.

“Let’s get him to the hospital,” Emma says.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian does not like the hospital any better on this third visit. It’s more chaotic this time, Emma calling for a doctor and David trying to calm down the dwarves and keep them out of the way while two nurses get Doc settled on a wheeled bed.

They all follow, a strange unsettled feeling in Killian’s chest keeping him close to the proceedings. When he catches Emma’s eye, he sees the same feeling reflected in her face. They move further into the room as the dwarves crowd in behind them, surrounding the bed at a distance while the hospital staff tend to Doc.

Killian doesn’t see when, exactly, it all starts to go wrong. The regular beeping from one of the machines increases in tempo, and a woman yells in alarm. There’s an unholy shriek. Someone screams. Killian shoulders past a dwarf to where David and Emma are standing frozen, staring at the scene before them.

Doc is gone. In his place is a creature with grey fur, wings, and a long tail.

It shrieks again as it flaps its wings, and sends the bed rolling towards them. Emma stumbles back, pulling the nurse beside her out of the way. The monkey rears up—

Killian knows what’s going to happen before it even starts moving. David’s attention is on Emma, his arm out as if to shield her.

The monkey charges forward – but not towards Emma.

“Down!” Killian barks, lunging forward to grab David’s shoulder. There’s no time for politeness, so he puts his weight behind it, pulling the prince down to the ground with him. He lands awkwardly, his elbow slamming onto the smooth floor as he tries to brace himself. He ignores the sharp lance of pain and rolls onto his back, bringing his hook up and reaching for his sword in case the damn beast follows through on the attack.

It doesn’t; it barrels past overhead, its tail whipping by close enough that Killian flinches back. Behind him, he hears the window shatters, and twists his head just in time to watch the monkey fly out into the afternoon sun.

David is up on his elbows beside him, breathing hard. He blinks once, twice, then shakes his head. “Okay,” he says. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Are you okay?” Emma demands. She’s standing beside David, concern written all over her face as her eyes sweep over both of them.

David waves her off as he gets to his feet. “Fine. Hook?”

“I’m fantastic,” Killian growls. He bites back a groan, his shoulder protesting as he pushes himself off the floor. “Bloody hell.”

 David is holding out a hand. Killian takes it, and David hauls him to his feet, giving him a nod. “It almost got me. Thanks.”

He’s got that earnest look on his face again, the one that always makes Killian feel like an impostor. The fact that David knows he’s a pirate, has experienced his treachery and rage firsthand, doesn’t help.

He’s _not_ some kind of hero. He didn’t even mean to help, just there. He didn’t stop to think about it. He has a bad habit of doing that, rushing headlong into danger without thinking about it.

That’s hardly heroism.

“Don’t mention it,” Killian says. He glances back at the shattered window, and tries for a nonchalant tone. “I suppose _that_ explains why we couldn’t find anyone.”

“No kidding,” Emma says. She rubs a hand over her forehead and flips her hair back out of her face, looking tired. “Question is, why?”

“Well, so far, everyone went missing out in the forest,” David says. “Near the town line.”

“Except for Neal,” Killian reminds him. “Though I’m beginning to think that was an exception.”

Emma nods. “He didn’t turn into a monkey, either. So what did they want with him?”

“It certainly lends credence to our theory that it’s a distraction for your benefit,” Killian points out.

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Emma says after a pause. “The Wicked Witch. She’s here, and she’s watching.”

“We don’t _know_ that,” David argues, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“No, we don’t.” Killian’s eyes are still on Emma. “But you feel it, don’t you? Emma?”

She purses her lips. “I think... I mean, it’s just a feeling. My head says I’m probably being paranoid.”

“ _I_ think your _feeling_ is the reason why I’m still alive after Neverland,” Killian says. “It’s what brought the Lost Boys to our side. I’m inclined to trust it.”

“Okay.” David blows out a sharp breath. “Okay. Let’s assume she’s here. What do we do?”

Emma looks around, at the hospital staff still studying their instruments, cleaning up the broken glass, trying to make sense of everything that just happened. “Step one, we get out of here,” she says. “Come on.”


	7. Chapter 7

They reconvene at the station, where Snow joins them because David has not been answering his phone or texting back and she is out of patience.

Once she finds out the reason for it, of course, she forgets about everything else. “They’re being _turned into_ flying monkeys?”

“Aye, it appears to be a bite that does it,” Hook says, leaning back against the wall. Emma has noticed he does that, always refusing to sit, always with a clear line to the exit.

“Okay.” Snow is visibly struggling to find some of her usual optimism as she sits back on David’s desk. “Well, that’s—okay. At least we know what we’re dealing with now. Poor Doc...”

“We’ll figure out how to reverse it,” David assures her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “There’s gotta be a way. Every curse can be broken.”

“I don’t think True Love’s kiss would work on a monkey, mate,” Hook says. “And any such attempt would likely result in a bite – and not the pleasurable kind.”

David holds up his hands hurriedly, like he doesn’t need or want to hear any more of Hook’s thoughts on _that_ subject. “That’s not what I—I’m just saying, there must be a way to... I don’t know, cure them?”

“Cure the vampire monkeys,” Emma says, tossing her keys onto the desk and snagging one of the chairs. “Sure. That’ll be our next project once we defeat the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Snow gives her a worried look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just a little...” Emma waves her hand, shakes her head. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Emma,” Snow says. “You’re doing that thing again. It’s okay to be overwhelmed, you know. You’ve got a lot to deal with right now.”

Emma tries a rueful smile. “I’ve always got a lot to deal with. It’s okay—”

“How about I call Regina?” Snow suggests. “Maybe she has an idea about reversing... well, whatever it is.”

“Monkey-ism?” Emma says.

“Monkey-itis is the medical term, I think,” David says with a straight face.

Emma grins and shakes her head. Hook cracks a smile. Snow rolls her eyes.

“ _Whatever it is_ ,” she repeats. “And _you_ can get a start on the paperwork.”

David looks almost offended. “What paperwork?”

“All the paperwork you didn’t get around to today because you were out chasing down dwarves and people with _monkey-itis_ ,” Snow says, a glint in her eyes.

David opens his mouth to protest, shuts it again, glances at Emma as if for help. Emma shrugs. He sighs theatrically, and turns his attention to his desk and the files lying on it in haphazard piles.

Emma glances at Hook, and they share a moment of silent amusement when he grimaces in sympathy for David and she shrugs to say _he kind of asked for it_.

“Well,” Hook says, his tone carefully casual, although his eyes are sparkling. “I’ll leave you to it, I think. Unless you need me for anything else?”

“No, no,” David says, a little too quickly.

Hook send an exasperated look his way, bows to Emma and Snow, and turns to leave.

Emma gets up from her chair. “Actually, wait, before you go...”

She beckons him into her office, pulling open the drawer to retrieve the phone she found. It’s ancient by today’s standards, but she reasons that the less it can do, the easier it is to use.

“There a reason why you wanted to get me alone, Swan?” Hook asks, although he stays by the door, giving her space.

She rolls her eyes at his tone. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just...” She trails off. Reconsiders. Smiles. “I’ve got something for you.”

That gets him – she has the satisfaction of seeing his expression flicker for the briefest moment, with surprise and something else she can’t quite identify, before the smirk is back. “A gift? I wasn’t aware we’d reached that point in our courtship.”

“I wasn’t aware we had a _courtship_ ,” Emma returns, with her best effort at imitating his accent for the last word. The effect is ridiculous, but that’s okay. The entire notion of _courtship_ is ridiculous, as far as she’s concerned.

Hook gives her a hurt look. “No? Hmm. I suppose I shall have to redouble my efforts.” And that’s ridiculous, too, how his expression goes from fake-hurt to full-on smouldering in the course of one sentence, and how it makes her breath catch when he looks at her that way. Emma does her best not to notice either of those things. She succeeds even less than with the accent.

“I thought you were done with that?” she challenges.

One of his eyebrows quirks, and he regards her for a moment, those blue eyes never leaving hers. It should be unnerving. Instead, it’s unnerving how _not_ unnerving it is. “Unless this is your way of telling me I’ve won your heart,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips, “or that you don’t want me to, no, Swan, I am not _done with that_.”

It takes her a moment to identify the strange light feeling that’s already spreading through her at his words. When she realises that it’s _relief_ , she almost bolts.

She has no business feeling relieved that Killian Jones has not given up on them. On _her_.

_Whatever._

Luckily, she has a legitimate reason to look away from him and change the subject – sort of, anyway.

“Well, here you go, Casanova,” she says, holding the phone out to him. When he reaches for it, she pulls it back. “ _Not_ a courtship gift.”

“Duly noted,” he says with a very straight face. Then curiosity takes over, and he peeks at it. “What the devil is it?”

She relinquishes it, dropping it into his hand with a flourish. “It’s a cellphone. It’s not state-of-the-art or anything, but I figured that a smartphone would be too—” She breaks off at his expression. “Never mind. It’s a... thing that’ll let you talk to me. Us. Everyone.”

“Like the contraption your father entrusted me with?”

“Like that, but better. You can call anyone as long as you have their number.”

He frowns at it, then at her, blue eyes piercing past long dark lashes. “What’s your number, then?”

Emma can’t help but laugh. She really should have expected that. Of _course_ that’s the first thing he asks.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s—nothing. My number’s already stored in there. I’ve given you David’s, too, and Mary Margaret’s... here, look, press this button to open the menu.”

She does her best to explain, and he does his best to understand, but even the fact that pressing the button _here_ makes something happen on the screen _there_ takes him a while to come to terms with. Emma ends up standing beside him, leaning into him as she tries to guide him through the menus. After a while, she gives up on the contacts list and takes the phone back to make it even easier for him.

“Here,” she says, handing it to him again, ignoring the way her skin tingles when her hand touches his. He smells way too good, too, standing close to her like this. “Now you’ve got me on speed dial. You just press this button, and it’ll call me.”

“It says _one a b c_ ,” Hook points out uncertainly.

“I know, I’ve set it to—it’ll call me. Trust me. Try it.”

He tries it, and her phone buzzes. She holds it up to show him. “See, your name comes up, I answer, and we can talk.”

He reaches for her phone, his hand curling around it to hold it steady, his expression unreadable as he stares at the display. The display, and the name currently flashing on it.

“ _Killian_ ,” he reads, and there’s something in his voice that Emma doesn’t think she’s heard before. His hand is partially closed over her fingers, gently, the warmth of his skin contrasting with the cool metal of the rings he wears. He doesn’t seem to be aware of it. She has to fight the urge to pull away. She forgot that she used that name. It’s just that she refuses, categorically _refuses_ , to have a bunch of fairytale characters in her contacts.

But maybe she should have gone with “Hook”. She’s never heard him say his real name since he introduced himself, all anger and defiance in the face of her threats.

There’s probably a reason for that. And now that she’s thinking about it, it suddenly feels like it’s too much, too presumptuous. Maybe she crossed a line.

He looks at her, his eyes oddly full – of what, she can’t say. But before she can ask, or explain, or offer to change it, or make some kind of joke, he nods. “I see,” he says, his voice casual again. He clears his throat and looks back down at his own phone. “Now what?”

“I’m gonna decline it, hold on,” Emma says, tugging at her phone. He relinquishes it quickly, dropping his hand as if burned.

But he doesn’t move away from her.

She calls him back, shows him how to answer and hang up, and he listens intently and nods as if it makes sense.

“Green for hello, red for goodbye,” he says. “That’s easy enough. Now, tell me again, which one is the Emma button?”

Emma tries very hard not to find it endearing as she runs through his speed dial list.

She doesn’t succeed _at all_ with that one.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal texts her again as she’s finishing up, and she uses the opportunity to show Hook the text function.

“ _hey, can we tlk?_ ” Hook reads, and it sounds odd, Neal’s words coming from his mouth. “What’s tlk?”

“Talk,” Emma says, and abandons the idea of explaining text shorthand immediately. “I guess he missed a letter.” She hesitates. “It’s probably about Henry. I should...”

“Aye, of course.” Hook nods.

Emma taps the phone in his hand. “You sure you got it?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, if you run into any problems, you know who to call,” she says lightly.

He hovers his thumb over the number 1. “Aye. I’m sure to remember that much.”

Emma’s stomach does a little flip, which she does her best to ignore. “Good.”

His eyes find hers again. “Thank you, Swan.”

“It’s just an old phone,” she defers. “Just wanted a better way to get hold of you, that’s all.”

She realises what she said immediately and braces herself for the innuendo, but he just grins. “I appreciate _that_ , too.”

His eyes are still on hers and he looks like he means it, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him that she wants to call him. On the phone he barely understands, except for the _Emma button_ , which is the most important bit.

He’s unreal. He’s ridiculous. He’s—

_Dangerous._

But she doesn’t have the heart to downplay it any further. It’s not like it _doesn’t_ mean anything. Before Neverland, she wouldn’t have given him anything, except maybe another jab in the ribs. He still doesn’t quite seem to fit in around here, or belong... but then, neither does she.

“Right,” she says. “Well. I guess I’ll see you. Or hear you. Whatever.”

“Aye.” He backs away, out of the door. “Until then, love.”

Emma takes a moment to gather her thoughts. Then she goes to check in with her parents, tells them she’ll see them at home, and heads over to the library.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal is leaning against the wall beside the doors, in a way that Emma the sheriff immediately classifies as “loitering”. The relaxed stance, the hoodie, the cargo pants, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets...

He wasn’t like that in New York. He was like that when she knew him, years ago. She wonders if he ever really changed, if the man with the neat coat and nine-to-five job ever really existed, or if he just got better at pretending.

“Hey.” He shoves off the wall when he sees her, face lighting in a smile – and that hasn’t changed at all.

She smiles back, but she knows it’s a half-hearted effort. “Hey.”

“Thanks for—” He gestures back the way she came. “You look tired, everything okay? How’s work?”

“Oh, you know. Dealing with flying monkeys, teaching Captain Hook how to use a phone, the usual.”

Neal’s eyebrows rise. “He got a _phone_?”

“Yeah.” Emma doesn’t elaborate.

“Huh.” Neal shakes his head, looking amused. “Captain Hook, twenty-first century man. Who’d have thought?” He tilts his head. “How’re you holding up with all... that?”

That’s one thing about Neal: he _gets_ it. He’s read all the same stories she has, and he’s not a character in any of them, either.

“When you’ve seen Snow White complain to Prince Charming that he didn’t text her back, you kinda just go with it,” Emma says. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Straight to it, huh?” Neal flashes another smile. He gestures towards Granny’s. “How about a drink? Hot chocolate?”

“ _Neal_.”

“Okay, okay.” He blows out a breath. “Regina came to talk to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, mostly to yell at me. About Henry.” He gives her a run-down of his conversation with Regina, which seems to have gone almost exactly the way Emma expected. Regina was angry, Neal was defensive, they argued, and Regina got the last word.

“I mean, I get it,” Neal says. “I messed up. But Emma, you didn’t have to send _Regina_ after me.”

“I didn’t send her,” Emma protests. “You think Regina does what I tell her? She just went.”

“She called me a deadbeat,” Neal says. “And sure, I wasn’t there for Henry, I get that, but I didn’t _know_. I’m doing my best. I know it’s all a little complicated, and my father wasn’t exactly a great role model, but I’m doing my best.”

Emma hears the frustration in his voice, and winces. “I know. Regina’s not the most diplomatic person on the planet. She just gets protective. But I think we all agree that we don’t want Henry to have to worry, right?”

“Of course. I don’t want him to grow up like I did. He shouldn’t have to worry about all that stuff. I just...” Neal drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t want him to hear that. I don’t want her to turn him against me.”

“She wouldn’t.”

He sighs. “No offence, Emma, but you can’t know that. You always see the best in people, and that’s awesome, but that kind of thing can blind you, too.”

“You mean she might turn around and set me up to go to prison?” Emma challenges.

“That was different,” he bursts out. “I didn’t have a choice, you know that!”

“Yeah.” Emma takes a deep breath. “Look, Regina wants what’s best for Henry. And he wants you around, so she’ll make sure of it. But it’s not easy for her either, you know? To her, we’re the interlopers.”

“We’re his parents.”

“She’s his mother, too.”

Neal sighs. “Yeah. Because my dad just _had_ to meddle in that.”

“He did it for you,” Emma reminds him.

“I didn’t ask him to. I didn’t _want_ him to. I just wanted to get _away_ from all this. And now I’m right back in the middle of it, and so is my son, and I just... I wish we could just take him away from all of it.”

“All of what? Storybrooke?”

“Flying monkeys, his evil great-grandfather, curses...” Neal spreads his hands, tries another smile. “I mean, New York gets pretty crazy, but you don’t have to worry about any of _that_.”

He has a point. And it’s tempting, in a way; Emma’s old life wasn’t glamorous, but it was familiar, and not nearly as dangerous. She never had to fight dragons, or pirates, or evil queens. Magic was safely confined to stories. She was normal, or at least as normal as someone with her background could be.

And with Neal and Henry along, she wouldn’t be alone, either. She wanted that, once. She dreamed about the _what ifs_ , sitting in that cell in Phoenix. What if he came back? What if he found out? What if it was all a mistake?

But that was a long time ago, and it no longer feels like a dream come true. It no longer feels like anything at all. She’s not a naive teenager anymore, desperate for love and affection and someone to take care of her.

And she’s not alone anymore. Her family is here; Henry’s mother is here. She can’t take him away from it all. She might not really belong here, but he does.

Besides...

“I don’t know,” she says. “Last time I took Henry to New York, a stab-happy pirate showed up to try and kill his grandfather with magical poison from Neverland.”

“Oh, come on, he’s not gonna try that again. Anyway, he came after my dad, not you. I don’t think you need to worry about him following you.”

His voice is casual, but there’s something very attentive underneath the nonchalance, and Emma just _knows_ that it’s a fast track to the wrong conclusion. He’s making it sound like she wouldn’t want Hook to come after her, or be there – and not because of the whole stabbing thing.

She’s not so sure that he wouldn’t. She’s also not sure that it would be something she’d be _worried_ about.

But she is sure that she doesn’t want to say that to Neal.

She’s beginning to see what Snow meant about this ridiculous love triangle she’s found herself in. Every conversation like this is a minefield.

On the plus side, she’s getting really good at diplomatically evading unspoken questions that she doesn’t want to answer.

“That’s not what I meant. The point is, there’ll be _something_. I’m the Savior, I’ve got magic coming out of my fingertips, I... I don’t get to just _leave_. I don’t get a day off. It’s going to follow me, one way or the other. It always has.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Neal asks.

“Of course I get tired of it. But it’s not like I can change it.” She gives him a warning look. “And don’t tell me I should get rid of my magic.”

He holds up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Because even if I could, it wouldn’t solve anything,” she adds, to make sure he gets it.

“Hey, you brought it up.”

That implication is clear, too – _the lady doth protest too much, Emma_ – and has her balling a fist. “Sorry. Fine. We were talking about Henry.”

Neal nods. “Like I said, I don’t want him worried either,” he says. “I didn’t realise he’d overthink things like that. I’ll be more careful with my choice of words.”

Emma can almost hear the echo of Regina’s voice in those words, and mentally high fives herself for going with her gut and letting them butt heads. Neal might not like it, but he seems to have gotten the point, which is what matters.

Her phone buzzes yet again, drawing both of their attention. Neal cocks an eyebrow. “Killian testing out the text function?”

Emma starts a little at the name. Has Neal always called him Killian? She knows that they have a history, and that whatever is between them is complicated enough even without her interference, but Neal sounds so _casual_. Like it’s not a big deal at all.

She wonders if Hook would give him an odd look, too, or if it’s just normal for Neal to call him that. Something inside her feels a little twisty at the thought.

Is she _jealous_?

Of _Neal_?

Ridiculous.

“Uh, no,” she says. “It’s my—it’s Mary Margaret.”

_> Feel free to invite Neal over for dinner if you want!_

_> or not. Whatever you want._

Another text comes while Emma is reading. _ >I mean that._

“I better get going,” she says, dredging up a smile for Neal. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Sure. See you.” He gives her a lazy salute and a grin before she turns to go.

Her phone, with Snow’s texts, feels heavy in her pocket. She’s coming up with excuses before she even realises what she’s doing – Neal was tired, he wanted to spend the evening with his dad, she isn’t feeling well...

She can’t keep doing this.

She didn’t step between Regina and Neal, and the world hasn’t ended, and nothing is any worse than it was. The only difference is that Emma is not nearly as stressed.

Besides, it’s occurred to her that she’s being something of a hypocrite. She doesn’t want Snow making decisions and inviting Neal for her sake, and yet, she’s been doing exactly that for both of her parents.

Snow seems to have realised it, and stopped.

Maybe it’s time Emma stopped, too.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma shows up to dinner without Neal, and without any mention of him. Snow doesn’t ask, although it’s on the tip of her tongue. She feels lost. She wants to help her daughter, but lately, everything she does seems to be exactly the wrong thing, and she can’t figure out why.

She did a better job when Emma was just her friend and roommate. What does that say about her? When Emma came to town, she immediately bonded with Henry. But ever since she and David found their daughter, she feels like she’s only been losing her more.

She does her best to push past the loss and the self-doubt and the grief that keeps rearing its head. She’s determined to be there, to keep offering, whether Emma will accept it or not. Whatever else happens, Emma will not feel rejected or abandoned again.

“So, what did Hook say to the phone?” she asks over dinner, choosing a relatively safe subject.

Emma makes a face, but there’s a smile lurking under it. “I don’t think it really made a lot of sense to him. But he knows how to answer it, and how to call me.”

“Oh,” David says. “ _Good_.”

Emma gives him a look. It’s the kind of look that Snow probably directed at her own father a hundred times, and it makes her heart ache and swell all at once. David makes it look so _easy_ sometimes.

“At least _he_ won’t be texting you all the time,” David goes on. “Don’t think that’ll work, with the hook and all.”

“It can’t be any worse than your texting,” Snow can’t resist saying.

“Hey. Flying monkeys, remember? I was busy.”

“That’s your excuse? Really?” Emma swallows a mouthful of pie and actually pauses before shovelling another into her mouth. “What was it before last week?”

Snow laughs at David’s betrayed expression. “Good question.”

“Hey. I’m not _that_ bad.”

Emma looks at Snow, her eyebrows raised. Snow returns the look.

David throws up his hands, but he’s smiling and can’t hide it. “Oh, fine. I see how it is.”

Emma laughs before turning her attention to devouring the rest of her pie, and Snow takes a moment to just _bask_. David catches her eye and his smile turns softer. He understands. He always does.

 “Speaking of texts,” Emma says after another minute or so, when her plate is empty, “I got yours.”

Snow can’t read the expression on her face. Emma is good at hiding her feelings when she wants to, although Snow can at least tell when she’s doing it. “Oh?”

“Uh-huh.” Emma takes a deep breath. “You know, I talked to Neal, and... I’m pretty sure he wants to leave.”

Snow feels her brow furrow. “What?”

“You know. Leave Storybrooke, move back to New York. With Henry. And me.”

“What?” Snow exchanges an alarmed look with David. “Why?”

“He thinks it’s for the best,” Emma says, and this time, Snow thinks that she can see something behind that careful expression.

“And what do you think?” she asks.

Right on target. Emma shrugs, a little helplessly. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s no flying monkeys in New York, no magic... but this is Henry’s home. Can I just take him away from that?”

Snow almost wilts with relief. Emma doesn’t want to leave.

“We just got him back,” she tells her daughter. “And... Regina’s his mother, too. I don’t think he’ll be happy, leaving her. And _we_ can’t leave, Emma. We wouldn’t even be able to visit.”

“Yeah, and that’s the point,” Emma says. “I mean, sure, it’s dangerous here. And maybe my magic’s dangerous. But if I leave... you’d still be here. I’m the Savior. Even if I could quit, there wouldn’t be anyone else. There wouldn’t _be_ a Savior.”

Snow’s heart aches at the thought of the burden they inadvertently placed on their daughter. She doesn’t know how it happened, or why, but it’s become evident that Emma’s role involves more than just breaking Regina’s curse.

Snow can’t help her with that. She has no magic of her own. But she’s determined that she’ll do whatever she can.

“You shouldn’t have to put your happy ending on hold,” Snow says. “We don’t want that, either. But—”

 “Neal’s _not_ my happy ending!” Emma bursts out. She’s immediately contrite, pressing her lips together. “Sorry. I just—I’m not—” She shakes her head.

“It’s okay,” Snow says quickly. “I was going to say, I don’t think your happy ending involves denying who you are. And that includes magic.”

“But you think it involves Neal,” Emma says. “It keeps coming back to that, and I need to... look, this isn’t easy. Okay? But I want to try and explain it, because I know you want what’s best for me, but I can’t keep making excuses, and I don’t want to—I’m not getting back with Neal. Ever. And it’s not because I’m, I don’t know, scared. Or _running_. Or whatever.”

It’s one of the longest speeches that Snow has ever heard from her, and she’s not sure she understood half of it. But she knows one thing: Emma is confiding in her.

“You don’t have to justify anything to us,” she says carefully. “All we want is for you to be happy, Emma.”

“But that’s the point,” Emma says, a little desperately. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think Neal can make me happy if I just let him, but I _did_ let him, and he... he didn’t just leave. I know that’s what I said, but that’s not all of it.”

“What did he do?” There’s an edge in David’s voice. Snow sends him a warning look.

Emma looks at him, too, for a long moment. Then she turns to Snow, her eyes searching. A lost girl’s eyes, looking for home.

Snow nods, and tries a smile. “It’s okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

And Emma tells her.

She tells a story about a car theft and a whirlwind romance, a dream of a better life, a promise of home. A bag of stolen watches. A time and place to meet.

A policeman, handcuffs, Miranda rights, prison.

A baby. A choice.

And in the end, nothing left but a broken heart, a shattered future, and a stolen car.

At some point, they move from the dining table to the couch, Emma curling up in an armchair while she finishes her story.

“Oh, Emma.” Snow knows that Emma does not want pity, but it isn’t pity that propels her forward to perch awkwardly on the arm rest and wrap her arms around her daughter. She can’t even put a name to it, except for _need_ , an overriding need to hold her and tell her _it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here._

Her little girl. She can see her, in her mind’s eye, so young and so pretty and so, so alone. Hopeful. Betrayed. Abandoned.

Emma hasn’t said it, but she knows it anyway: this is why she is so determined to run. This was the killing blow, the final nail in the coffin of her trust.

_He_ did that.

And Snow tried to _help_ him.

She doesn’t know if she can fix that, or make up for it. She doesn’t know if Emma is about to push her away. All she knows is that she will not be the one to let go. She can’t.

_I’m here._

Emma is turned away, her head down, staring at a spot on her knee where her fingers move, restlessly drawing patterns onto the denim. But Snow does not let go, not this time. And after a moment, Emma’s arms reach up, and she rests her head against Snow’s shoulder, and for that tiny precious moment, Snow thinks that maybe she knows what her daughter was like as a child.

“He didn’t want to do it,” Emma goes on after a while. “He didn’t know about Henry, and he thought... he thought it was for the best.”

David is still sitting on the couch, looking stricken, but at this, he scoffs. “The _best_?”

“August told him I needed to break the curse. That he would only hold me back.”

“Someone’s gonna have to hold _me_ back,” David mutters. He hesitates, then he shakes his head. “I’m sorry I tried to get you to go on that date. If I’d known... well.”

“Pirate doesn’t seem so bad now, huh?” Emma quips, trying for a joking tone and not quite hitting it.

But David goes along with it anyway. “Will you stop that? I’m still a married man.”

Emma laughs. Snow smiles, and hugs her again. “Thank you. For telling us. And I’m sorry, too. I just wanted to help, and I know what you can be like, and I thought... but I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Emma sniffs, just a little, and they all pretend not to notice. “I’m not angry at him anymore. That’s not why I... It’s just that everyone keeps acting like Neal and I are, I don’t know, meant to be, or something. And I get it. That’s the fairytale. But it just doesn’t work that way in this world.”

“I’m not sure it really works that way anywhere,” Snow says. “But that was never the point, Emma. We don’t want you to be with Neal, we want you to be _happy_. Whatever form that takes.”

“Just preferably not in New York,” David adds. “I missed twenty-eight years. I don’t want to miss any more.”

“Me neither,” Emma whispers. Snow can’t see her face, but whatever her expression is has David smiling at her.

Emma clears her throat. “Just one thing... Henry doesn’t know. I know we’ll have to tell him some day, but I’m not sure he’s ready, you know?”

Snow nods. It’s not like _Henry_ has been pushing Emma towards Neal, she thinks with a twinge of guilt. “He won’t hear it from us.”

“I don’t care if anyone else knows,” Emma adds. “I’m done protecting him. I didn’t today and it worked out better that way, and it’s like you said... secrets just keep us from the ones we love.”

Snow thinks her heart might burst out of her chest, even though it just broke for her little girl. She’s heard parents referring to their children as their little miracles. She’s never understood that sentiment quite like she does right now. This is her daughter, and she is so, so proud of her.

“Look, I don’t want this to be a, a _thing_ , okay?” Emma goes on. “It was years ago. I don’t want it to cause problems now. Especially not for Henry.”

“Of course,” Snow agrees.

“Understood,” David says, but from the way his fist is curled and the tense set to his jaw, Snow thinks that he might be a little liberal in his interpretation.

She’s not inclined to stop him.

But for now, she doesn’t care about anything except the fact that her daughter has given her a chance to _be there_. She isn’t going to let anyone or anything get in the way of that.

Never again.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma sighs, leans back in her chair, sighs again, and presses her hands to her temples as she glares at the book on her desk. It’s a book, so it doesn’t react, which is rather rude of it.

Another sigh, this one almost a growl.

“How’s it coming?” David asks. He’s just finishing a very late lunch, having done all of the work so far while Emma tries to learn magic. He’s about to head back out on patrol in her stead, too, _and_ he brought her a bear claw, so she really can’t yell at him.

Instead, she makes a face at the book. “It’s _not_. You don’t happen to speak Elvish, do you?”

“Uh, no. Sorry.” David frowns. “Wait, it’s written in Elvish?”

“Half-Elvish, technically. Allegedly. I wouldn’t know.”

David still looks confused. “Why would Regina give you a book you can’t read?”

Emma drops her hands onto the table and lets her head fall back. “I’m supposed to _feel_ the spell. The words just give it shape, whether I understand them or not. I’m supposed to feel it, and pull it from the page. Problem is, I keep getting distracted trying to figure out what it says.”

“What kind of spell is it?”

“Just a simple one for warmth,” Emma says. It sounded simple when Regina explained it to her, anyway. The spell in the book already focuses the magic, so she won’t have to worry about focusing it herself. Regina thinks that it will make it easier for her to control how much magic she uses, which is apparently what she needs to work on.

But unless and until she manages to get the spell from the page, she can’t work on anything.

“Hey,” David says. “You’ll get there.”

Emma huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just not cut out for book study. Regina says it helped her, but the way she talks about it, it’s supposed to be easier than summoning magic on your own. Easier _._ Not impossible.”

“Maybe you two should have another lesson,” David suggests.

“Can’t. Regina’s still trying to figure out a cure for monkey-itis.”

He smiles at the term. “Right. Well, maybe you can assist. Learn by doing? That seems more your style.”

Emma considers it. He’s got a point. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll call her later, maybe we can make time tomorrow.”

“I can handle things here,” David says with a nod. “You just—”

The phone rings.

David beats Emma to it. The voice on the other end is male, but Emma can’t make out any more than that. David’s face, after a moment, is another matter. He looks concerned. “What did he look like?”

Hearing the answer, he pinches the bridge of his nose, looking resigned. “Yeah, that’s him. I’ll be right there. Just stay put – Eric, right? It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Emma frowns at him, at his lack of alarm at what sounds like an emergency situation. David’s eyes slide to her.

“Just stay where you are and keep an eye out,” he says. “I’ll be there in five.”

“What’s up?” Emma asks when he hangs up.

“Just need to check something out,” he says, trying to be casual. But he’s David, and he’s a terrible liar, and Emma sees right through him.

She grabs her jacket. “Where? I’ll go.”

“No need,” David assures her.

“So I’ll take over patrol, then?” she asks pointedly.

“I can do this on the way—”

“David,” she cuts him off. “We’re supposed to be a team. What’s this about?”

He hesitates, puts his hands on his hips, and heaves a sigh. Then he capitulates. “It’s Hook,” he says, with some reluctance still colouring his voice.

“What about Hook?”

“Apparently, he’s trying to steal a fishing boat.”

 

*  *  *

 

One of the side effects of spending centuries on the wrong side of the law, Killian has found, is a finely-honed sense for trouble. He can usually spot it from a mile away.

And the young man he sees vaulting onto one of the fishing vessels in the harbour practically screams trouble.

It’s a blink-and-you’d-miss-it movement, but Killian has also gotten very good at _not_ blinking at the wrong moment. So he sees the man board the boat, and he sees the way he ducks out of sight, and he sees the way one of the mooring lines goes slack, like it’s being untied from on-deck. And all of it before there’s any sign of the engine starting.

Killian still doesn’t know a whole lot about the ships of this realm, but this is definitely not standard procedure.

He stops, waging a brief battle with himself. He could call the sheriff. But by the time Emma or David get here, the boat will have cast off, and good luck getting her back then.

Besides, there are still flying monkeys about.

Mind made up, Killian changes direction, hurrying down along the pier towards the boat docked beside the one that’s currently being stolen. He glances around to ensure that no one is watching before boarding and making for the bow.

He can see the other man now, crouched down on the deck as he works on loosening the ropes. Working fast, Killian notes, like someone who knows his way around a ship.

The engines on vessels such as this one are started in a similar fashion to cars, he has learned. It involves a key, and some manner of magic-that-is-not-magic, and a lot of rumbling. He doesn’t know the details, but he does know where it happens, so he makes his way to the wheelhouse and slips into the cramped space, tucking himself back out of the way.

The young man appears a minute or so later. Killian has a half-formed plan to take the key from him, but to his surprise, the fellow doesn’t appear to have one. Instead, he hunkers down and removes the covering from under the wheel, exposing a mess of wires.

That rings a bell. _Hotwiring_ is a word he’s heard from both Neal and Emma, and he knows it has something to do with stealing cars.

He moves his hand to his sword. “Are you sure you want to do that, lad?”

The man’s reaction at hearing Killian’s voice so close-by is almost comical. He starts, his head banging against the wheel as he instinctively moves forward and away from the voice. Then his sense seems to kick in and he moves with purpose, ducking away and coming to his feet to face Killian. He has a knife in his hand.

“Get off my ship.”

“I don’t believe it’s your ship, mate.”

The young man grins, a cocky expression that Killian recognises from the mirror. There’s a lot about the man he recognises, in fact: the sure way he grips the knife, the way he’s planted his feet, the determination in his eyes.

The way he shrugs. “It is if I take it.”

Killian grins back. “Then I’ll just have to take it back.”

The young man lunges for him, knife slashing through the air. Killian catches it with his hook and pivots on his heel, turning into the lad’s body to slam his elbow into the soft spot beneath his ribs.

His opponent grunts and doubles over. Killian brings his other arm down; with the knife still caught in the hook, the leverage and the sudden lack of air is enough to make the man relinquish his hold on the blade. It clatters to the ground. Killian stoops to pick it up and points it at the would-be pirate.

The lad is looking rather paler than he was a minute ago. He’s still getting his wind back, but he manages, “You’re Captain Hook.”

“The very one. And you are?”

“Go to hell.”

Killian shakes his head. “Bad form, lad. But perhaps you’d rather introduce yourself to the sheriff. I can arrange that.”

It takes another moment. Then: “Jamie Flynn.” And, slightly more hopefully: “You’re not calling the cops?”

“That rather depends on whether we’re likely to have a repeat of this incident.” Killian tucks the knife into his belt. “Word of advice, mate. There are flying monkeys out there, and they seem intent on patrolling the border and ensuring that no one leaves. So unless you want to join them, I suggest you stay put.”

“I know,” Flynn bursts out. “Why d’you think I’m trying to get out of here?”

“Getting yourself turned into a simian would rather defeat the purpose,” Killian points out.

The chin comes up; the chest puffs out. Killian knows the look, the desperate defiance of a boy who thinks he can take on the world. Or rather, thinks he has to take on the world. “I’ll take my chances.”

“No,” Killian says, stressing the word, “you won’t. For one thing, you’d need a ship for that. For another, you’d need a weapon, and that letter opener wouldn’t do you much good even if you still had it.”

Flynn glares at him, but he has lost, and he knows it. Killian doesn’t leave time for his bruised ego to start getting defensive. “Here’s my proposition,” he says. “You get off this ship, go home, and don’t set foot on another ship without permission from its captain.”

“Sure,” Flynn spits. “Home. Wanna get a bit more specific?”

Killian frowns. “Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

But Killian knows the look in his eyes. He’s seen it far too often. “Go to the convent,” he says. “You might find a place there, if you want it.”

Flynn gives him a look. “With a bunch of nuns? Come on.”

“Fairies, actually,” Killian corrects. “The Lost Boys are staying there, and I imagine that they have their hands full wrangling those lads, and then some.”

“I’m not gonna hang out with a bunch of kids and _nuns_ ,” Flynn says, but there’s a note of hope in his voice.

Killian smirks. “Talk to Tinkerbell, then. You might be surprised. Now come on, before someone happens by and notices that neither of us belong here.”

He grabs the lad’s upper arm to march him out of the wheelhouse and across the deck. Flynn’s steps are reluctant and he makes a face, but he doesn’t resist, not really.

They’re walking along the pier when someone yells, “Hook!”

Killian’s head whips to the left. Emma Swan is running towards him, accompanied by a tall man with dark hair and an odd, hesitant drag to his steps.

Killian nudges Flynn, who is frozen beside him. “Go on, lad,” he says. “I’ll handle this.”

Flynn swallows. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The lad hurries off, and Killian half-turns to shout after him, “I mean that!”

Then he turns back to Emma, who looks furiously beautiful as always, hair escaping from beneath a knitted hat to fall loose over her shoulders. He spreads his arms, and fixes a grin on his face as he saunters to meet her. “Swan. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Emma is frowning, her eyes flicking to what Killian hopes is Flynn’s retreating back. “Who’s that?”

“What have you done to my boat?” the man beside her demands. His words don’t match the rest of him; he’s wearing a cream cable-knit sweater and fisherman’s boots, and he has a gentle look to him, blue eyes filled with worry. He’s slightly taller than Killian, his hair a shade lighter, and of course, he’s not nearly as handsome.

“Prevented her from falling into the wrong hands,” Killian counters, feeling his hackles rise.

“You mean yours?”

Killian lifts his hook with a smirk. “I only have the one, mate.”

The other man narrows his eyes, but Killian sees the flash of fear in them as they stray to the hook. “Is _that_ supposed to reassure me?”

“Eric,” Emma says, holding out her arm in a calming gesture. Killian thinks that she looks a little lighter, like some weight has been lifted from her shoulders, or at least lessened. It doesn’t lessen the determined set to her features, though. “Please. Hook, what happened?”

He does his best to ignore Eric and focus on Emma, the better to keep his temper in check. Fortunately, and distressingly, keeping his attention on Emma is very easy. Killian recounts the tale, as briefly as he can manage.

When he’s finished, Emma lifts both arms in an incredulous shrug. “You let him go?”

“Aye.”

“He tried to steal my boat,” Eric exclaims, looking annoyed.

“But he didn’t,” Killian points out.

“And we only have your word that he was even responsible,” Eric goes on, his voice and face dark with suspicion. “Maybe he was your accomplice.”

Killian bristles. “I already have a ship,” he says, gesturing back to where the _Jolly Roger_ is docked and dwarfing the other vessels in the harbour. “Abandoning her for yours would be a poor trade indeed.”

“She’s a sailing brig, and you don’t have a crew,” Eric points out. “The _Silent Siren_ has a motor and only needs one man to crew her.”

“I have no need of a crew,” Killian retorts. “I can manage just fine by myself. Trust me, mate, if I was trying to steal your ship, I would have bloody well stolen her.”

“Unless you saw me and realised the sheriff was on her way.”

“She would have been too late. Even the lad would have got away in time, and I’m a far better pirate than he is.”

Eric raises his eyebrows. “So you admit to being a pirate.”

“I never denied it,” Killian snarls.

“Guys,” Emma interjects, stepping between them and holding out her hands. “Hook. You can’t just take the law into your own hands.”

“Still only have the one, love.”

She tilts her head back and to the side, annoyed. “Stop that.”

He feigns innocence. “Stop what?”

“I don’t care how many hands you have,” Emma snaps. For a moment, they look at each other, and Killian has to struggle not to let those words sink in. She’s annoyed that he’s deflecting, that’s all it is. It means nothing more than that. There’s absolutely no reason for his chest to feel so warm.

He knew that this hope business was a bad idea. Now that he’s felt it again, it keeps rearing its damn head, and for the stupidest reasons. Even in the middle of an argument. He needs to _stop_.

The trouble is exactly what the trouble always is, with hope: he doesn’t _want_ to stop.

After another moment, Emma takes a deep breath. “Not the point. Okay? Why didn’t you call me?”

Killian drags his attention back to the argument. Back to safer waters. “I considered it, but by the time you got here, it would have been too late. I barely caught him in time as it was. Another minute or so, and we would have had to chase him down on the water. And while that _is_ my area of expertise, I can assure you, it tends not to end pleasantly.”

Emma huffs out a breath, crossing her arms. “Why d’you let him go?”

He shrugs. “He was a desperate lad doing the only thing he thought he could,” he says. “Would you lock him up for that?”

He can see that she understands in the way her face softens, just a little. But she doesn’t give in. “Maybe not. But that’s _my_ call. Damn it, Hook, you know what this looks like.”

Killian looks from Emma to Eric and back again, and lets out a breath. “Aye. It looks like I’m due for another trip to the station.”

 “Wait,” Eric says. He looks and sounds reluctant, but firm. “It’s okay. I don’t want any trouble.”

Emma looks at him, surprised, with cautious relief lurking beneath. “Are you sure?”

Eric is sure. It makes no sense, given the way he’s still looking at Killian, until Killian realises that he doesn’t want trouble _for Emma_. He seems to be under the impression that having to arrest Killian puts Emma in an awkward position, and wants to spare her that. He’s wrong, of course – Emma Swan has no problem clapping Killian in irons, as she’s proven time and time again – but he still rises in Killian’s estimation, despite everything.

When Eric leaves to check on his boat, Emma lingers. “So,” she says, her tone deceptively casual in a way that tells Killian there’s a hammer hanging at the end of whatever she’s about to say. “Is this what pirates do? Patrol the harbour, looking for people trying to steal boats?”

It’s the second time she’s throwing his pirate status into question, and she has a point, but Killian isn’t ready to concede it. He is a pirate. And he wants – oh, he wants – Emma to see past it, to see more, but not by denying it altogether. He can’t live up to that. And the last thing he wants is to let her down.

“I wasn’t patrolling,” Killian says, and smirks. “But I do know how to spot someone trying to steal a ship. And how to steal it back.”

“Yeah. Funny how you can use the same skills on both sides of the law,” Emma remarks.

“I’m no lawkeeper.”

She gives him a wry smile. “I am.”

He keeps forgetting that she used to be a thief – and a good one, at that. Or rather, he keeps forgetting to take it into account. It hardly matters. He’s in no position to judge, even were he inclined to, and besides, she’s clearly left that behind her.

Emma moves up beside him, and they fall into step before Killian even realises that his feet are moving. “Are you sure the kid isn’t gonna try it again?”

Killian can’t remember saying any such thing, but he nods anyway. “As sure as I can be, yes.” He hesitates. “I don’t think he wanted to be a thief.”

“Who does?” There’s a world-weary edge to Emma’s voice, but she smiles at him. “You talked him out of it.”

“I disarmed him,” Killian corrects. “Here.”

He takes out the knife, flips it in his hand, and holds it out to Emma hilt-first. She takes it and gives him an incredulous look. “He tried to fight you with that?”

Killian grins. “It was a very short fight.”

“No kidding.” Emma tucks the knife into a pocket. “So where’d you send him?”

“Pardon?”

“You gave him an out, right?” Emma says, and it’s not a question. “He didn’t see a choice. You gave him one.” She frowns. “You didn’t send him to Granny’s, did you?”

He has to fight to keep his face impassive. How does she _do_ that? “Ah, no. I told him to try the convent.”

Emma smiles. “With the other Lost Boys.”

“He’s no boy,” Killian says, but leaves it at that.

It’s with some surprise that he realises they’ve almost made it to the _Jolly Roger_. From the glance Emma sends at the ship, it seems she’s just as surprised as he is, despite the fact that she all but led the way. A stroll along the docks was not what she came here for, and Killian is still a little mystified why and how it turned into that.

Emma clears her throat. “Anyway. I should get back to the station.”

“Aye, and I ought to... get back to work.” He can’t actually think of a single thing that needs doing aboard his ship, but he’s sure there’s something. There’s always something.

“Right. Yeah.” She doesn’t move.

Neither does he.

“Right,” Emma says again, shifting her weight to her other foot. She leans back a little and looks up at him. “Next time, just call, okay? I gave you a phone.”

“Aye.” Killian procures it from his pocket and holds it up. “As I said, by the time—”

“Yeah, yeah. You still could have called to tell me what’s going on.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you would have told me to stop and wait for you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but they both know better. “You know, if you’re so eager to help out, you can just come help out. David could use a hand.”

Her tone is light, casual. Killian matches it. “Or a hook?”

Emma gives him a look. “You know he doesn’t actually hate you.”

Killian grins again, scratching at his neck and forcing himself not to lower his eyes like a blushing maiden. “I know. I’m winning him over.”

Emma laughs, seems to think of something, and clears her throat. “Right. Well, look, the thing is, I’m still trying to figure this magic thing out, and David... well, he says he’s got it covered, but he’d say that no matter what.”

“Like father, like daughter,” Killian can’t resist saying. Emma narrows her eyes, but there’s a smile playing around her lips. Something is definitely different about her, lighter, and it has nothing to do with him, but it still makes him smile in return. “I’d be honoured to help, Swan.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Good.” Emma nods. She looks around, then squares her shoulders and brushes her palms down along her sides. “Good. So I’ll come by and pick you up tomorrow.”

He flashes a wide smile. “See you then, love.”

Only when he’s back on his ship, trying to remember what he was going to work on, does it occur to him that he can just walk into town, and that perhaps a true gentleman would have reminded Emma of that and insisted on not causing her extra work.

A little while after that, it occurs to him that he didn’t need her to walk him back to his ship, either.

 _It means nothing_ , he reminds himself firmly.

 _Still don’t care_ , his heart reminds him.

He gets back to work to try and drown it out. It almost works, too.


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, Killian finds himself walking along the main street with Emma Swan at his side. The sun is shining, though the air remains cold, and Emma is in a good mood, which would make him suspicious if he wasn’t so busy enjoying it.

“I didn’t say you’re an old man,” she insists. “I just said it’s an old man phone.”

“Insult by implication is still insult, Swan, don’t try to sugarcoat it,” he tells her with a grin.

“It’s not an insult when it’s true,” she says, apparently heedless of her own denial barely a minute earlier. “What are you, like, three hundred?”

“Only by a technicality,” he says. Up ahead, he can see David, leaning back against the patrol car outside Granny’s, waiting for them. “As you can see, I’ve retained my youthful glow. Something for which you ought to be thankful, really.”

Emma squints up at him against the sunlight. “Oh, really?”

“Aye. Without the curse and Neverland, I wouldn’t be here. Certainly not with my dashing good looks intact.” He gestures at his own face, still grinning.

She feigns horror. “Oh, that _would_ be a tragedy.”

He inclines his head, trying to keep a straight face past the delight he feels at the easy teasing. “So you see my point.”

His spirits sink a little, however, when he catches sight of something up ahead: Neal, emerging from Granny’s with two paper cups of coffee in his hands. Guilt rises immediately, even though he reminds himself that he’s here by Emma’s invitation. He hasn’t gone back on his word.

_Only by a technicality._

_Shut up_ , he growls at his conscience.

“What I see is that you—” Emma breaks off as she, too, notices Neal up ahead. “Oh, damn it.”

Before Killian even realises it, she has grabbed his hook and is tugging him off the sidewalk into an alley between two shops. He copies her without thinking as she presses herself against the wall, as if they’re waiting to ambush a passer-by.

“Swan—” he begins.

“Shh,” she says, peering out across the street to where Neal is sauntering along the little path outside of Granny’s. “I am not walking into _that_ with you.”

“Into what?” He’s a little dumb-founded. To his knowledge, Neal and David get along just fine, and he himself isn’t _that_ much of a controversy.

Is he?

Emma looks at him in an appraising sort of way, like she’s making a decision. Across the street, David and Neal are talking... and while Neal is his usual relaxed self, Killian is surprised and a little alarmed to see David’s squared shoulders and crossed arms. He’s been the recipient of the prince’s hostility often enough to recognise it even from this distance.

But he’s never seen it directed at Neal.

Emma sighs. “Look, things might be a little tense right now. I told Mary—my parents about Neal and everything that happened. David’s not happy with him, and the last thing that situation needs is you and your... innuendoes.”

That’s the wrong word for what she actually means, he can hear it in her voice. Something stirs in his chest. He didn’t know, didn’t dare hope, that she was quite so aware that his presence here, with her, is about more than just a little flirting and a few inappropriate remarks. For her to all but acknowledge it...

Her hand, he realises with a jolt, is still holding his hook.

He clears his throat and tries to keep his thoughts on-track. “You’re not referring to the flying monkey incident, are you?” He can’t think of anything Neal might have done to anger David.

“What? No. No, it’s about before. When we were...” She breaks off, shakes her head. Her eyes meet his. “Can I just give you the short version? No questions?”

“Whatever you want, love.”

“Right. Well.” She lets go of him then, both hands gesturing as she talks. Look, when we broke up, back... _before_ , we didn’t just break up. He’d stolen some watches, and he let me take the fall for it. That’s why I went to jail.”

Killian stares, thunderstruck.

“He didn’t know about Henry,” Emma goes on, sounding almost defensive, as if she’s forestalling his condemnation. “I only found out a month later.”

Anger flares, quick and familiar. He knows what she’s not saying—she was young, barely more than a child herself. For the first time in his life, he wants to introduce Neal to his hook, or at least his fist. Wants to scream at the man for so casually destroying the kind of love and trust that other people would kill to have.

He knows it must have broken Neal’s heart, too. The regret and grief he’s seen in the man’s eyes make a new kind of sense now. But at least he’d had a choice. Emma, on the other hand...

Killian wants to say something—to tell her that he’s sorry, that he understands, that he knows what it’s like to be betrayed and abandoned by someone you love. But there’s nothing that doesn’t sound insincere, like he’s trying to take advantage, make himself look better in comparison.

Besides which, he left her behind bars once, too.

“Henry doesn’t know,” Emma goes on. She looks a little uncomfortable, but not as much as he would have expected, her chin up and her eyes firm. “I don’t want him to—well, I don’t want to lie to him, but he’s eleven. I don’t think he’d understand.”

He thinks there might be a question in it. He nods. “Aye, it seems advisable to hold off on that revelation.”

She looks relieved. “Right. So, don’t mention it to him? Okay?”

He nods again. “Of course. Believe me, the last thing I want is to come between that boy and his father.”

Another thought plummets through him, cold and harsh. Because he knows where Baelfire learned about betrayal. Oh, Rumplestiltskin was the first, but Killian did him one better, didn’t he?

If the boy had just _listened_. If he’d just agreed to stay. If Pan hadn’t been such a demon. If Killian himself hadn’t been such a bastard, hell-bent on revenge and driven by that hopeless, merciless anger.

“Thanks,” Emma is saying.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. “It’s a matter of course.”

Emma’s eyes are straying across the street again, to where David and Neal seem to be having a rather heated exchange. “I told him I didn’t want any drama,” she mutters. “Henry’s going to end up caught in the middle and it’ll be Regina all over again.”

Killian is still torn between self-flagellation over the what-ifs of his own past, and anger at Neal for his selfishness, but he shakes it off. It doesn’t matter.

“I could go over and antagonise them both,” he suggests, pushing away from the wall and looking over at the two men. “Common enemy, and all that.”

Emma gives him an incredulous look. “You wanna start a fight to prevent a fight?”

“One that wouldn’t hurt the lad,” he points out.

Emma ponders that for a moment, her mouth slightly agape as her eyes search his. Then she shakes her head. “This is ridiculous,” she snaps. “We’re all adults. Come on.”

She gives a light tug at his arm while she says it, a subconscious gesture as she moves past him. He follows after her as she strides back out into the street and towards the diner. “I thought you didn’t want—“

“Yeah, when I thought it’d make things worse,” Emma says, striding forward with quick, determined steps. “Right now, I think petty jealousy would be a step up.”

By all rights, her acknowledgement of the rivalry between him and Neal—of him as her suitor—should delight him, but all he can feel is guilt. Emma cares about people. She cares about everyone. She’s juggling everyone’s emotions and reactions, trying to prevent them all from being hurt, and in return...

His rivalry with Neal has never seemed more childish.

Neal and David both look as guilty as Killian feels when they notice Emma. Killian’s mind flashes back to Neverland, to Emma calling them all to task on the beach. Considerate she might be, but she’s also fierce, and they all know it.

“Hey,” she says, an expectant smile on her face. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” David says firmly. “Just waiting for you guys.”

“Emma.” Neal’s smile is friendly as always, but Killian can see the way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can I talk to you a sec?”

David’s arms are folded across his chest, every inch of him a refusal to move. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Emma looks from one to the other, a frown replacing the smile. “What the—“

“Like I said, we got it,” David tells Neal.

Neal’s eyes slide to Killian, his face darkening as he seems to put it all together. “This is a bad idea.”

“Is this about my magic again?” Emma demands.

And with that, it all falls into place. Neal’s annoyance. David’s protective anger. Killian’s controversial presence as Emma’s replacement, which only seems to deepen Neal’s annoyance.

_Uh-oh._

With no other option presenting itself, and Neal about to speak, Killian falls back on plan A.

“I quite agree that you don’t _need_ magic lessons, love,” he says, hook his thumb into his belt as he leans into her space, mouth stretching into the most obnoxious grin he can manage. “You’re completely bewitching already.”

They all glare at him.

“As I’m sure we all agree,” he goes on cheerfully, inclining his head to Neal.

Neal is glowering, but the conversation’s been derailed, and any attempt to talk Emma out of it now would only place him on the opposite side of Killian’s support and thus make him look worse in comparison, and from the look on his face, he knows it.

“Fine,” he grits out. “See you around.”

He shoulders past Killian, an action that would normally result in a swift introduction to Killian’s hook. With an effort, Killian clings to his temper and fights back the old habit. He doesn’t want a confrontation. That was the whole point of this—and he can’t exactly blame Neal for obliging him and rising to his provocations.

He braces himself for the inevitable backlash as he looks at Emma, but she is narrowing her eyes at David instead. “I told you I didn’t want any problems.”

“It’s not a problem,” David says, calm but with steel beneath. “He thought we should talk you out of learning magic. I disagreed. That’s all.”

Emma looks mutinous. “Since when is me learning magic a group decision? You guys want to set up a committee, make it official?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell him,” David protests. “ _I_ know it’s not. Look, for what it’s worth, what I actually _wanted_ to do was punch him. I didn’t do that.”

They’re wearing identical, doggedly stubborn expressions. Killian fights to keep from fidgeting, and despite the fact that he usually enjoys Emma’s company, wishes he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. This doesn’t seem like a conversation he ought to be privy to, but he can’t think of a way to extricate himself without making it even more awkward.

“You know you don’t have to defend my honour, or whatever,” Emma says after another moment. “This isn’t the Enchanted Forest.”

“Defend your honour?” David shakes his head, waving the idea away. “That’s male ego stuff. It’s not about that. He hurt you.”

“It was years ago!”

“Well, I wasn’t _there_ years ago!” David’s voice is slightly brittle now. Killian feels a stab of ache in his chest. “And it’s still hurting you now, isn’t it? It’s still behind all the...” He breaks off. Emma is not looking at him, the anger gone from her face, and Killian recognises the discomfort there. She’s not used to this.

“Hey. It’s not about honour, okay?” David says, his voice casual again. “I promise. Sometimes, you just want to punch a guy.”

Emma looks at him, searching for a moment, then she nods, and her mouth twitches. “Hard to argue with that.”

Killian, who knows from experience that they both mean it, continues his efforts to act like he’s not here. For once, he has no wish to draw attention to himself at all. Even his presence here feels like he’s trying to take advantage, make himself look good in comparison. _Look which one of us_ hasn’t _been punched by your father lately, love!_

He wasn’t sure about the outcome before, when he swore not to interfere with Neal’s chances. He’s seen how they look at each other, knows that their history isn’t entirely in the past.

He didn’t expect it to be like _this_. Emma’s love story with Neal, it seems, is even more different from his own with Milah than he thought. Betrayal didn’t come from outside, in the form of a demon that she could hate and swear vengeance on. It came from _him_.

Killian doesn’t know if it’s possible to hate someone you once loved with all your heart. He can’t imagine it. He can’t imagine how much harder it must be, to cope with all that loss and pain and grief without having anyone to hate.

Without turning to darkness, as he did.

“Right then,” David says, expelling a breath and turning to Killian. “We should get going, rookie.”

Killian glares at him, half-relieved at the change in subject, half-annoyed at the title. “I prefer _captain_.”

“But what you _are_ is a rookie,” David says, looking far too pleased with himself, especially when he sees the way Emma is holding back laughter.

“I believe that would require me to join the force,” Killian argues, “which I have not.”

“He _is_ pretty old to be a rookie,” Emma says, mischief dancing in her eyes.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is _experienced_ , love,” he says, drawing up an eyebrow and letting his mouth curl into a smirk.

“No, that’s _not_ what she’s looking for,” David says firmly, looking like he’s enjoying himself a little too much.

“ _David_ ,” Emma says, exasperated, although she doesn’t stop smiling. Her tone sounds like she’s saying “Dad”, and from the look on David’s face, Killian isn’t the only one who notices.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Swan,” he says with a wink. “If I had a daughter, devilishly handsome pirates would make me nervous, too.”

David glares at him, but he can’t quite suppress the smile that Emma has put on his face, which rather ruins the effort. “I am not _nervous_.”

“Oh my God.” Emma looks from one to the other, shaking her head. “You sure I can leave you guys alone?”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble,” David assures her. “I think a little honest work will do him good.”

The retort is on the tip of his tongue, but Killian contents himself with a rather dramatic glower, which makes Emma laugh again, just as he hoped.

Bloody hell, he really is going soft.

 

*  *  *

 

After the bright sunlight and the easy camaraderie with Hook and David, Regina’s vault feels more oppressive than usual when Emma walks down the stairs. She hasn’t been here often, but she’s never liked it. It’s dark and moody, all heavy stone and vaguely ominous-looking chests and books, lit only by candles and a shaft of light from the stairs. Emma thinks of it as “the Malfoy aesthetic”, although she knows better than to ever say so.

Most people outgrow their emo goth phase. Regina, it seems, has only grown more and more into it.

She’s dressed to match her lair today, in a black skirt and jacket and her usual haughty attitude. She pulls off her black gloves as she strides across the stone-paved floor, and whirls back around to Emma.

“You can put that away,” Regina says without preamble, indicating the spell book Emma is carrying. “Actually, give it to me. Clearly,” she raises her elegant eyebrows as she takes the book, “book learning isn’t your style.”

Emma’s hackles rise, as they always do at her tone. Every moment she spends with Regina is a battle with her temper, because everything about Regina reminds her of what she herself is not: well-educated, refined, lady-like, the kind of woman who automatically elicits bows and hand kisses. Not that Emma _wants_ any of that. But she still feels like a street rat next to her sometimes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What I said,” Regina says, in that tone of polite surprise she does so well. “You’re the one who said it wasn’t working.”

With an effort, Emma reins in her temper. Regina is right, after all. “Fine. So what are we doing?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Regina asks, and Emma realises that Regina is a little more annoyed than usual. “None of my methods are good enough, apparently.”

Emma makes a face at her dramatics. “It just didn’t _work_. I tried it. Come on, there must be some other way. How did Rumplestiltskin teach you?”

Regina gives her an impatient look. “Rumple didn’t waste time with books or hand-holding. You either swam, or you drowned. If you want to do it that way...” Her eyes light up in a dangerous sort of way. “Actually, why not? No more trying. Do or die.”

“Whoah, okay, Evil Yoda,” Emma says, holding up her hands. “How about a middle ground?”

“How about you stop wasting my time?” Regina counters. “You have plenty of potential. You can call up more power by instinct than I can manage on purpose, most days. But you don’t want to practice. You don’t want to learn from the book. Well, I’m sorry, but there’s no secret cheat code to this. It’s hard work.”

“It’s not what I _want_ ,” Emma says, trying to make her understand. “I tried. It just doesn’t work.”

Regina waves that away with an impatient swipe of her hand. “It would work if you really wanted it to. Magic’s all about doing what you really want.”

“Oh, it works,” Emma snaps, exasperated. “Just not with _finesse_.”

“Like I told you, magic is emotion,” Regina says. “That’s what motivates it. And that’s why yours is so erratic sometimes, because you aren’t always in control of your emotions.”

“How does _emotion_ help me hit a moving target?”

“Ask your mother about archery sometime,” Regina says. “It’s more about feeling than anything else. You need to be in tune with yourself.”

That does not sound like a road Emma wants to explore further. Definitely not with Regina Mills, of all people. “Please tell me we’re not going to start meditating or something.”

“Hardly,” Regina says. “That’s not your style, either. But that’s what happened in the diner last week, right? Hook got to you, and...” She mimes an explosion with her manicured hands. “Boom.”

“He didn’t—“ Emma cuts herself off. “Is there a point to this?”

“Of course.” Regina looks far too pleased with herself at Emma’s reaction. “Believe me, I have no interest in untangling your personal life. You’ll have to go to the cricket for that. But like I said, you need to know how you feel. Magic relies on intuition.”

“I know how I feel,” Emma says automatically. “Anyway, it’s not like _you’re_ exactly warm and fuzzy.”

“Neither’s my magic,” Regina says, just a little smugly.

Emma just shakes her head. Regina uses anger to call up magic and give it focus, but Emma doesn’t want that. She can rarely stay angry, for one thing, and it also sounds a little too much like “dark side” to her. There has to be another way.

“Anyway, I didn’t say turn into some kind of hippie,” Regina goes on. “Just be honest. Don’t ask me how, that’s up to you to figure out. I’m not your therapist.”

“Now _there’s_ a thought,” Emma mutters. “So is there anything else you can teach me, or am I on my own?”

There’s a pause, in which Regina just looks at her, her expression turning defiant. “I can teach you,” she says. “Actually, I have an idea. I want to put up some more wards around here, and around the loft, too. You can help me. Two witches are better than one—in theory, anyway.”

She lifts a challenging eyebrow. It’s quite clear that she doesn’t expect Emma to be much help, and Emma decides in that moment that she’ll find a way to do it, no matter what it takes.

“Sounds good,” Emma says, with a confidence she does not feel. “Protecting the town’s my job anyway.”

Regina nods, then gives her a curious frown. “Who _is_ doing all of that while you’re here, by the way? Is David picking up all the slack?”

“Hook’s helping him,” Emma says, and immediately regrets it when Regina’s expression shifts into something far too knowing.

“I see.”

“He volunteered,” Emma says.

There’s a speculative glint in Regina’s dark eyes that Emma does not care for at all. “He seems to be doing that a lot lately.”

Emma shrugs. “I guess.”

“Hmm,” is all Regina says, but Emma swears she can hear all the remarks that the other woman is not making.

 “It’s not like that,” she insists.

“Like what?” Regina asks innocently.

Emma grits her teeth. “Never mind. Can we get back to the magic?”

“Of course,” Regina says smoothly, but she seems to be hung up on the previous thought. “Prince Charming and Captain Hook,” she says, shaking her head. “Now _there’s_ a buddy cop movie.”

Emma’s mind flashes to her job—or rather, the two men currently doing her job. _Buddy_ is about the _last_ term she’d have used.

 

*  *  *

 

It’s been two hours and forty-three minutes since David’s shift started. It’s been two hours and forty-two minutes since he realised that he may have made a mistake.

Until now, the only time he’s spent with Hook has been spent in pursuit of a common goal—finding the sextant, fighting the Lost Boys, patrolling for flying monkeys. He assumed, naively, that normal sheriff work would go more or less the same.

He was wrong.

Hook is exactly _no_ help while David struggles to rescue the world’s tiniest, loudest dog from underneath the floorboards in a decrepit old shed while also calming down the hysteric owner of said dog.

“Perhaps if you kept it on a leash,” Hook tells the woman. “I’m told those exist in this realm. Fine invention.”

“Put Bubbles on a _leash_?” The woman gasps and glares at him as if he just suggested that she have her pet for dinner. David, still struggling to coax Bubbles out from under the floorboards, groans.

“At the very least you would have something with which to pull it back out of there,” Hook says.

“Hook,” David grunts as the woman dissolves into outraged wails. “Not helping.”

“Apologies, mate, the only help I can think of giving involves my hook,” the pirate says far too calmly. “That would solve the noise problem, but I fear the lady wouldn’t appreciate it.”

David has to fight a strong urge to join Bubbles under the floorboards as her owner redoubles her wailing.

The pirate, as it turns out, is not cut out for police work. He’s good in a fight, and a good man to have as back-up, and even his charm comes in useful on occasion, but he also has priorities. And when he considers something a waste of time, he isn’t shy about voicing that opinion.

David more or less manages to hold onto his temper and his sanity for most of the day, until they get another call in the late afternoon, and that one tries his patience more than even the pirate has ever managed.

The pirate, it seems, agrees with him.

“This is the most preposterous thing I’ve heard in my life. And given the length of my life so far, I assure you, that is saying something.”

David shoots Hook a warning glare before turning back to the woman in front of him. “When did this happen?”

“Just before I called you.” The woman, who seems to be capable of communicating only in screeches, puffs herself up again, like a demented bird. “Well, that’s when I saw it. The whole fence, ruined.”

“You ruined it!” her neighbour, a tall, thin woman who seems on the verge of tears, bursts out. “She’s been trying to get us to repaint the fence for weeks and this is her way of—“

“I did nothing!” the screeching woman retorts. “It was probably your good-for-nothing son, he’s always—“

“Ladies, please.” David holds up both hands, trying to think what his wife would do in this situation. It’s a moot question. If Snow were here, the two women would probably be inside one of the houses with her already, sharing a cup of tea and a chat.

He’d give anything to have his wife here to help him. Instead, he has Hook.

“Let me get this straight,” Hook says. “You agreed to build a fence because they,” he indicates the tall woman and her even taller, silent husband, “were blowing leaves into your yard,” he turns back to the bird-like woman, who puffs up even more under his gaze, “and now the fence has been vandalised by party or parties unknown and therefore needs to be repaired.”

“And repainted,” the bird-like woman adds.

Hook rolls his eyes, looking utterly disgusted with her, her neighbours, and especially his own presence here with them.

“We didn’t do it,” the tall woman insists. “And don’t you go blaming Kenny, he was inside the house with us all night.”

“It’s vandalism!” the first woman screeches.

“All right, I’ll make a report,” David assures her. “And we’ll, uhm, investigate. Okay?”

This does not seem to be a satisfactory solution. As the woman screeches on, Hook sends David an appealing look. David shakes his head in warning. Hook rolls his eyes again.

“You do realise she did it herself,” he says when they’ve finally reassured everyone to the point where they can all go their separate ways and David is leading the way back to the car.

David turns around. “What?”

“This supposed vandalism. She did it,” Hook said.

“How do you know?”

Hook cocks an eyebrow. “Pirate. I know a thing or two about subterfuge with a purpose. And the worst of the damage was all at a comfortable height for a person of her stature.”

David purses his lips. “That’s not proof.”

“Regardless, it’s the truth.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t work that way.” David blows out a breath. “We’ll have to file a report. Maybe Emma can...” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I hate leaving this for her.”

“Then let’s not,” Hook says. “I can go back there and talk to Dolores.”

“Dolores?”

Hook looks confused about David’s confusion. “Aye, Dolores. The woman who looks like a bird.”

It’s a mystery to David how Hook managed to retain that information amid all the screeching. “Right,” he says. “No. You can’t—why do you want to talk to her?”

Hook grins. “To persuade her to let the matter drop.”

David sighs. He has already explained to Hook why some things are illegal around here and that there are procedures to be followed. As with all rules, it seems to be falling on deaf ears. Or more precisely, the perfectly functioning ears of a man who simply chooses to ignore what he’s told when he doesn’t like it. “We can’t do that.”

Hook holds up his hand. “Correction: _you_ can’t do that. _I_ , however, having not joined the force, am at perfect liberty to do whatever I choose.”

“It’s still illegal.”

“You have my word that she won’t report a thing,” Hook says with a devious look on his face. “And we are, of course, not having this conversation.”

“Hook—“ But David trails off. He knows perfectly well that it’s this, or let Emma deal with this mess when she gets back, because Dolores is not going to let it go. And—

And it’s not like Emma is likely to be any nicer about it, in the end. It’ll just take her longer to get there.

“You know what, I’m going back to the station to file this report,” David says. “I don’t need your help with that.”

“So my time as an honorary rookie is over,” Hook says, deadpan.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Hmm.” Hook nods. “I feel the need for a drink. I think I’ll pay the widow Lucas a visit once I—well. In a while.”

David nods back at him. “Sounds like a good idea.”

When he arrives at Granny’s a little while later, Hook is already sitting at the counter, engaged in conversation with Ruby and looking very pleased with himself.

“David,” he greets him. “I have the most fortuitous news regarding my friend Dolores. It seems the whole thing was a colossal misunderstanding, and she is _very_ sorry to have caused you to go to all this trouble.”

David allows himself a smile.

Occasionally, maybe, the pirate is not so bad.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma finds, to her surprise, that she has a talent. Naturally, it’s a talent that has Regina glaring at her—apparently, one is not supposed to be able to erect a magical barrier on one’s first attempt. It’s only a very feeble one, and only puts up a token bit of resistance when Emma pushes her hand through it, but it’s there.

And what’s more, she knows how to do it again.

According to Regina, protection spells, by their very nature, tend to require more finesse and focus. “So you have no choice but to focus,” she remarked with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Otherwise it won’t work. All right. Try it.”

Emma tried it. And it was like a dam being opened somewhere within her. This magic makes sense, on a level she can just feel.

By the end of the afternoon, Emma has managed to ward the loft and is even able to produce a magical shield that Regina’s fireballs can’t penetrate.

“That was almost easy,” Emma says, still caught between surprise and pride at herself. “It feels... I don’t know, but I can just feel it, you know?”

“Yes.” Regina is looking rather less self-satisfied now. “I suppose it figures, the Savior being good at protection.”

“What’s your problem?” Emma can’t help the sharpness in her voice. “I did it.”

“Yeah, you did,” Regina agrees. “It’s not a problem. But seeing how easy it is for you when you actually try, I’m wondering why I’ve been wasting all this time—“

“I was trying before,” Emma cuts her off, annoyed now. “I’m sorry if knocking over tables or throwing fireballs at people isn’t my thing! I told you I didn’t want to ‘use my anger’ and all that dark side stuff.”

Regina glares at her. “And I told you that I can only teach you what I know. Rainbows and unicorns and hand-holding has never worked for me.”

Emma has to fight back a denial. It sounds extremely ridiculous to her—the magic of love is not something she’s ever really believed in, except for a brief time as a naive seventeen-year-old in the grip of puppy love. It’s the cheesiest thing she’s ever heard, except maybe some of Hook’s—well, she supposes they’re technically compliments.

But she can’t deny it, not now that she’s finally figured out the source of the magic humming through her. Not when it feels so right to think of her family, when the thought of keeping them safe makes it so easy to focus that she almost doesn’t have to think about it.

Apparently, idealism and faith and cheesy clichés are just a part of her life now.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, you know,” Regina snaps. “True love _is_ the most powerful magic of all. And I’d think it’s a lot more pleasant than—well, some of the alternatives.” The way the heat drains out of her voice as she alters whatever she was going to say has Emma wondering what, exactly, her training with Rumplestiltskin involved.

And whether maybe, some of Regina’s anger at her stems from jealousy. It wouldn’t be the first time. A part of Emma is still reeling from the angrily-recited list of people who care for her, the one Regina spat at her as if it was a weapon, the one that was far longer than she’d realised.

Emma swallows down her retort, but she meet’s Regina’s anger with a hard look of her own. “Believe me,” she says. “I know.”

 

*  *  *

 

She’s in a better mood than usual when she leaves Regina, her magic feeling more like a part of her and less like something that could take hold of her at any moment. For the first time in weeks, she feels a sense of control. She can almost convince herself that everything will be okay.

Henry and Neal meet her in front of Granny’s. Neal seems a little subdued, his eyes uncertain as he looks at her. He relaxes visibly when Emma smiles at him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Emma slings her arm around Henry and pulls him close. “Dinner?”

“Yep!” Henry hugs her back, then ducks away and races ahead into the diner.

Once again, Emma is greeted with the sight of Hook at the counter, and this time, he’s apparently having a beer with her father. David is right beside him, talking with him and Granny and Ruby and looking perfectly happy to be there.

Emma feels an odd mix of relief and apprehension. It’s good to know that they made it through the day without anyone getting stabbed or something, but on the other hand, she can’t help thinking back to what happened the last time those two shared a drink. Or rather, what happened afterwards, when David left Hook alone with her.

It takes Emma a moment to realise that Neal is no longer beside her. He’s a step behind, his face a study in mixed emotions. Resentment, guilt, apprehension... it’s all there, and more besides.

And that has her realising just what she has just walked into. The dread only has a second to coil in her stomach, though, before the sight of Henry bounding over to say hi to David sets her straight again. That’s what matters. That’s who matters. The men will just have to put a cork in their stupid rivalries and protective instincts. If they don’t, she’ll do it for them.

“Hi Gramps!” Henry says, tugging at David’s sleeve.

David smiles his sunshine smile at him. “Hey, buddy.” His eyes flick up, to Emma, then to Neal. Behind him, Hook is very carefully showing no emotion whatsoever, beyond a friendly smile of his own.

“Hi,” Emma says, deciding to ignore the tension. “How’d it go?”

David shrugs in a casual sort of way. “Same as always, really.”

Her eyebrows rise. She was expecting complaints, or more of the same teasing from earlier, but David sounds as he always does at the end of a work day. Emma glances at Hook, whose expression could be used as a textbook illustration for “diplomacy”.

“Oh,” she says. “Good.”

“Well, I should be off,” Hook says, pushing away from the counter and setting down his hastily-drained glass. He’s still not really meeting her eyes, and for a heart-stopping moment, Emma thinks that he’s avoiding her because of what she told him earlier.

But that’s her self-doubt talking. And Emma is determined not to listen to that anymore. Besides which, if he was going to react that way, he would have done it earlier, immediately.

No, it seems that Hook has picked up on the same tension she has, not that that’s surprising. He’s intent on avoiding conflict, not her.

Hook nods at David as he picks up his coat from the stool beside him. “Thank you for the drink, mate.”

David bought him a drink?

_I thought he deserved a little credit._

Emma fights back the memories. It was a one-time thing, born of relief and desperation and that stupid lingering attraction that should have gone away by now.

Hook swings his coat over his shoulders and moves towards her, and Emma feels her breath catch before she realises that she is standing between him and the door. He’s heading for the door, not her.

She moves out of his way.

He only nods at her, and she sees the furtive glance he shoots at Neal. She was right.

Relief and gratitude are warm in her chest, along with everything else, and she wants to reach for him.

“Hey,” she says. “Thanks. For the help.”

His eyes finally meet hers.

_Perhaps gratitude is in order now..._

“Not a problem, love,” he assures her, still looking a little tense. “Have a good night.”

“Yeah.” Her voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to her.

_One-time thing_ , she reminds herself, except it sounds an awful lot like regret this time.

“Good night,” she rallies. “I’ll see you around.”

A smile touches his lips at that, and it feels like a victory. “A man can hope.”

And then he’s gone, the doorbell jangling behind him. Emma stays put, feeling a strange mix of loss and triumph.

“You okay?” David is looking at her with concern.

She gives herself a mental shake and smiles at her father. “Yeah, sure.”

 “Yeah? How was it?”

“Great. The loft should be safe from flying monkeys now.”

David’s eyebrows rise. “You did that?”

Emma feels a surge of pride at the way he’s looking at her, like he’s actually impressed. “Uh-huh. It turns out I’m pretty good at warding.”

“That’s great,” he says, and he seems to mean it. His hand moves, like he wants to reach for her, but the movement stops almost as soon as it starts.

Henry is tugging at Emma’s hand now. “You coming? I’m hungry.”

Emma wonders what it would be like if she had to stop herself from taking his hand, or hugging him. She puts an arm around him, suddenly almost fighting back tears. “Sure, kid. Give me a sec. Save me a seat, okay?”

David watches him scamper over to join Neal in a booth, and his smile wavers a little. “I was gonna head home, but I can get another drink.”

_I can watch over you._ He doesn’t say it, but Emma hears it, all the same.

“It’s okay.” She reaches out, pats his arm—a little awkwardly, maybe, but she thinks that he probably won’t mind. “Henry’s got homework, we’ll be home in a few.”

_I’ve got this._

David nods, looking a little happier now. He gets up and makes for the door, with a reassuring touch on her shoulder as he passes her. Emma smiles up at him, then goes to join her kid and ask him about his day, without allowing even a hint of magic, pirates, or conflict into the conversation.

Protecting Henry, and herself as well.

Her magic still simmers inside her, but it feels more tranquil now. Like a small flame, warm and safe and steady, guiding the ships to the harbour.

It feels like a purpose. Like not being alone anymore.

Like home.

 

*  *  *

 

When Killian gets back to the docks, he’s hailed by Eric, who hurries over to him with an apprehensive but determined look on his face. Killian is still bracing himself for whatever is about to happen when, to his surprise, the other man smiles.

“Hi,” he says. “I was hoping to catch you. You weren’t on your ship when I called earlier.”

Killian gives him a suspicious look. “If this is about yesterday—“

“No,” Eric says hurriedly. “Well, yes, but not... look, I just wanted to apologise.”

It’s the last thing Killian expected, and it puts him off-balance for long enough that Eric goes on, “I jumped to conclusions, and they were wrong. I’m sorry. I should have been thanking you, so, thank you.”

He holds out a hand.

Still a little suspicious, but confident that he has nothing to fear from the man, Killian takes it. “It was nothing.”

“Hardly,” Eric protests. “I called the cops on you.”

He sounds embarrassed. Killian shrugs. “I’m a pirate. I’m accustomed to the occasional run-in with the law.” He throws caution to the winds and grins at the prince. “And it’s not the worst fate that can befall a man, being questioned by our sheriff.”

He half-expects an exasperated response, or even a disdainful one, but instead, Eric just gives him a speculative smile. “What about the deputy?”

“That’s rather less enjoyable,” Killian admits, still grinning. “Though I’m winning him over.”

Eric chuckles, then shakes his head. “It’s so strange to know he’s her father. And she a princess. I keep forgetting. A princess working as a sheriff?”

“You’re a prince working as a fisherman,” Killian points out.

“Yeah,” Eric sighs. “This realm is strange.”

“You’ll hear no argument from me. It’s proving a logistical nightmare to find a replacement sail,” Killian says.

Eric winces in sympathy, glancing over to where the _Jolly Roger_ is docked. “Supplies in general, I imagine.”

“Aye, I haven’t even _tried_ to procure new ammunition for the cannon.” Killian cocks an eyebrow. “But you were cursed, were you not? I would have thought you’d be used to all this.”

“I was,” Eric says. “Then the curse broke, and I remembered what it was like. Proper seafood banquets, sailing ships... and don’t get me started on the stuff they sell as rum around here.”

“Ah.” Killian grins and digs out his flask. “That, I can help you with.”

And that is how they end up sitting on the _Jolly Roger_ ’s deck, sharing a bottle of rum and talking about life on the seas. They disagree rather pointedly on the morality of piracy versus that of the royal navy, but they agree that there are grey areas and exceptions.

They also, it turns out, agree on the subject of unusual princesses.

“A pirate and the sheriff,” Eric muses. “How’s that for irony?”

“It’s not ironic when that’s all we are,” Killian tells him a little too sharply, ignoring the familiar old ache that rises with the words. “I’m not anything to her.”

“But you want to be.” Eric takes another swig of rum and grins. “You don’t seem like a man to give up easily.”

He’s not wrong, but Killian would jump over the side of the ship before admitting it. He’ll admit it to Emma, or not at all. And she doesn’t want to hear it.

Not that he can blame her.

He glowers at the prince. “What, no quip about getting ideas about my station?”

“I fell in love with a mermaid,” Eric says with a wry shrug. “Trust me, I’m the last person to talk about unusual matches.”

“Aye, Swan told me that story,” Killian says, all too glad to change the subject. “It seems you’re rather famous in this realm, you and... Ariel, was it?”

“Yeah.” A fond smile creeps onto Eric’s face at the thought. “She’s not here right now, or I’d introduce you. She’s off on an errand for her friend Snow, but she should be back any day.”

“An errand?” Killian echoes, surprised.

“Yeah, to the Enchanted Forest. She’s the only one here who can get there easily, so she agreed.”

That seems strange. Killian feels almost betrayed that Snow White didn’t ask him, before reminding himself that she barely knows him, and besides, a flying pirate ship is hardly inconspicuous.

And it’s none of his business, anyway.

“She always wanted to see other realms,” Eric says after another moment. “This—the curse—it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wanted to take her sailing, see the world with her. It sounded so romantic.”

Killian thinks back to that brief time, centuries ago, when he’d taken a woman to see the world. Seen it _with_ her, the wonder in her eyes sparking his own. He finds that his throat is a little closed up, and swallows. “Aye, it is.”

Eric is almost boyishly keen to hear more, and Killian obliges him with only a little reticence. He doesn’t mention Milah’s name, nor any of the more sordid details of the story, but he recounts some of the adventures they shared. To his surprise, the memories aren’t nearly as painful as he might have expected.

Perhaps he really can move on. Perhaps there’s hope for him, after all—real hope, for something good. A happy ending. Or at least a happier ending than the one he’s envisioned for most of his life.

It’s a dream, and he may yet burn for having it. But Eric is right—he’s never been one to give up easily. He’s finally found something to fight for again. And he can’t go back. He won’t. This time, he’ll either win, or die trying.

Preferably, of course, the former.


	10. Chapter 10

Killian has not known Henry Mills for very long, but it seems that the lad has decided that they’re friends now, past misdeeds notwithstanding. When Killian walks into Granny’s diner in a quest to procure some lunch, Henry is there, evidently in the temporary care of Granny and Ruby, and waves at him.

“Ahoy!”

Killian isn’t sure how it happens, but somewhere between Ruby’s smiles and Henry’s chatter, he ends up sharing a booth with the lad. Henry asks about the ship, and tells him about school—a mandatory institution rather than a privilege for the rich in this realm, it seems, strange as that is.

“Excuse me?”

Killian looks to his left. The woman at the table nearest theirs is leaning over in her chair, an apologetic smile on her face. She’s tall and red-haired, her blue eyes pale and bright against freckled skin. “Could I get some sugar? There isn’t any left.”

She gestured to her own table, and sure enough, the small box that holds the little condiment packages is devoid of sugar. A strange oversight; Ruby is usually obsessive about keeping everything stocked.

“Of course,” Killian says, holding the box from his table out to her.

The woman daintily picks out two packets of sugar. “Thank you so much, Captain.” She hesitates, looking unsure, though her friendly expression doesn’t waver. “It is ‘Captain’, isn’t it? Captain Hook?”

He lifts the prosthetic that gave him his name in a sort of wave. “Aye, it is indeed. And might I know your name?”

Her smile is coy, and makes the pirate in him sit up and take notice. He’s never met her before, but he knows that smile. It’s the smile of a woman who knows what she wants, and likes what she sees.

“Zelena. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

She’s blushing, her pale skin turning a delicate pink under the soft freckles on her cheeks. Another familiar reaction, but Killian has been around for longer than most, and he knows this game. He’s played it many times. If her shy sweetness is real, he’ll eat his hook.

He’s a little offended that she thinks him so easy to manipulate.

But he smiles back in kind, just as suggestive and coy as she, and adds a wink. “The pleasure is all mine, milady.”

She averts her eyes again, her eyelashes fluttering, before looking at Henry. “And who is this young man?”

“Henry,” says Henry, looking sullen.

“Oh.” Zelena’s eyes widen. “Of course. Well, it’s an honour to meet you, Henry.”

Henry narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Zelena says with another indulgent smile. “You’re the boy who defeated Peter Pan.”

“Not really,” Henry says shortly, and turns back to his food.

For the briefest moment, Zelena’s smile slips, and she looks furious. Killian bites back a laugh, gives her an apologetic look, and turns to Henry.

“Manners, lad.” He’s unable to put any conviction into the admonishment, but it probably ought to be said, at least.

Henry looks mutinous, but he says nothing as he shovels more fries into his mouth. Ruby brings Killian’s order, and Zelena looks up and smiles again, but Killian avoids catching her eye outright and instead turns his attention to Ruby.

“Thank you,” he says.

At the next table, Zelena finishes her drink and gets to her feet, no longer smiling.

Killian looks at Henry as Zelena makes her way to the door. He’s rarely known the boy to be anything other than friendly towards anyone, even a villain such as himself. “Is there a reason you were so curt back there, lad?”

Henry shrugs. “I didn’t like her. I don’t trust her. Something’s weird about her.” He glares at Killian. “Even if _you_ think she’s pretty.”

Killian laughs. It’s a bad reaction; Henry’s glare deepens. Killian hurries to say, “I assure you, lad, any prettiness she might possess is not enough to blind me to the truth. I don’t trust her, either.”

“ _She_ liked _you_ ,” Henry says. It sounds like an accusation.

Killian grins before he can think better of it. “Most women do.”

Henry narrows his eyes. “My mom doesn’t. Or Grandma, either.”

Nothing like eleven-year-old honesty to take a man’s ego down a peg—or ten. Killian sighs. “Aye, that’s true enough.” He leans forward a little. “I’ll let you in on a secret, shall I?”

Henry considers that. “Okay.”

“Sometimes it’s better not to let on when you dislike someone,” Killian says. “It avoids conflict, and sometimes it also avoids suspicion. It’s rather like knowing your enemy has set up an ambush. If you know it’s there, it’s often best to pretend you don’t, and be ready for it.”

Henry’s expression clears. “Strategy. Right.”

“Precisely. Saved my life many a time.”

That gets the boy’s attention. “How?”

Killian is happy oblige his interest, launching into a tale from his pirate days—a comparatively tame one, and a little censored, lest he be skewered by the lad’s mothers for corrupting him.

A few minutes after that, Killian and Henry are facing each other across the table, Henry’s plate of fries between them, as Killian teaches the boy how to play dice.

When the stack of fries on Killian’s side is tall enough to make Henry glare, though he takes his losses with good grace, Killian takes pity on him. “You know the secret to winning, lad?”

“Practice?” Henry suggests, wearily.

Killian shakes his head, holding up his set of dice with a grin. “Loaded dice.”

Henry’s eyes widen, then narrow. “That’s cheating.”

Killian shrugs. “Only if you get caught.”

The boy considers that, then shakes his head. “I think it’s cheating either way.”

He’s got a point, but Killian waves it away. “The point is, you win.”

Henry looks at the dice, then up at Killian. “How do they work?”

Killian grins again.

They’re interrupted a while later by the sudden arrival of Snow White, who greets Henry warmly and ruffles his hair, and asks what they’re doing. If she’s surprised or annoyed to see Killian with her grandson, there’s no sign of it in her manner or expression.

“Killian’s teaching me how to play dice,” Henry says with a grin. The use of his real name sends a little jolt through Killian—Henry has known his name for a while, but he’s never used it before. In fact, Killian has noticed that he tends to find creative ways around addressing him by name at all, except, occasionally, “captain”.

It appears that the boy has decided that they’re friends. Killian keeps his eyes on his plate of fries so that anyone who notices the frankly _stupid_ grin on his face will take it for victor’s pride.

Snow is nodding thoughtfully. Then she scoops up the dice, weighs them in her hand, and gives Killian a narrow-eyed look. “You mean, how to cheat at dice?”

Henry’s eyes go wide. Killian manages to suppress his own reaction, but he’s impressed.

“How did you know?” Henry asks.

“Bandit, remember?” Snow returns with a smug smile. “I learned a thing or two about gambling, and how to spot a cheater.”

Killian lowers his voice conspiratorially as he looks across at Henry. “It appears she’s onto us, lad”

Snow is still smiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She nudges Henry’s shoulder. “Come on. Time to go home.”

Henry gives her a hopeful look. “Do you have some loaded dice I can practice with?”

Snow laughs, shaking her head. “I’m afraid mine are back in the Enchanted Forest.”

“How about you borrow these?” Killian holds out the dice.

“You sure?” When Killian nods, Henry grabs the dice from him and grins. “Okay, let’s go home. I can’t wait to play with Mom. And Gramps.”

“You might need a bit more practice first,” Killian says with a laugh. “And work on that poker face.”

Henry gives him a look. “For Emma, yeah. Not for Grandpa. He’d never suspect me.”

Killian looks up at Snow, to find her looking back at him with a wry sort of expression on her face as she silently concedes Henry’s point. It’s the first time, Killian reflects with some amazement, that he is in total agreement with Snow White.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma slouches at her desk, half-heartedly directing her magic at the candle in front of her. A tiny flame flickers to life and catches, and for a moment, Emma just watches it, a little hum of pride in her chest.

It’s not nearly as difficult as it used to be.

Emma blows the candle out, then re-lights it, and then she tries to extinguish it with magic. It takes her a few attempts, but finally, with one determined snap of her fingers, the flame dies down.

She smiles.

She hears the door open and close, and looks up, frowning. David can’t be back from patrol yet. And there’s no yelling, no running, so it isn’t an emergency, either. The footsteps echoing down the corridor are steady, and she hears a man clearing his throat. She sits up straighter.

Moments later, Neal steps into the room. Something like disappointment slithers down inside of Emma, even though she wasn’t expecting anyone—she was _not_ —so it makes no sense to be disappointed.

“Hey.” Neal smiles his familiar smile, hands in his pockets as he sweeps a glance around the room. Looking for exits, Emma knows. It’s a habit he’s always had, at least for as long as she’s known him.

“Hey.” She leans back in her chair, cocks her head to the side. “What’s up?”

He holds up a brown paper bag. “Brought you some lunch.”

It’s grilled cheese. With onion rings. Emma knows she should be grateful, but as she tears open the packaging, her movements grow a little jerky with anger. He knows her order. He knows her.

Next time she’s at Granny’s, she promises herself, she’s going to finally try that salad Ruby recommended. Or the char-grilled chicken her mother is so fond of.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” Neal’s eyes dip down to her desk, and he gestures with his chin. “You planning a trip?”

She looks down. She forgot about the map she left lying there, quiet and unassuming. It’s a map of Storybrooke and the surrounding area, and it’s covered in careful marks made in black and red ink. “No, it’s just...”

It was her idea, to try and map out the boundaries of the curse along with the site of attacks. Five minutes into it, she realised that it was a terrible idea, because neither she nor David are any good with maps.

But pirate captains, it turns out, are.

The memory of Hook’s dark head bent over the map as he made neat, deliberate marks and notations on it is one she’s been trying not to dwell on. His hair fell into his face, his brow furrowed, and even though his necklace clattered against the table and his shirt gaped open even more than usual as he bent over his work, there was no trace of the pirate. Instead, she thinks she caught a glance of the former Navy lieutenant.

She’s been trying very hard not to hope for another such glance, another glimpse at one of the many unexpected, infuriatingly intriguing, sides of Captain Hook.

Emma is still a little angry at him about it all. No one should look that attractive while doing something so utterly boring.

Unfortunately, as she knows by now, Killian Jones lives to defy the rules.

Emma tears her thoughts back to the subject at hand. “Just trying to keep track of stuff. The curse. You know.”

“Right, the curse.” Neal shakes his head. “I, uh, was hoping to talk to you about that, too.”

She’s immediately on alert. “Oh?”

He snags the other chair and wheels it around so he can straddle it, facing her across the desk. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking. Neither of us were cursed, and neither was Henry, right? And there’s no magic outside the town, so if we leave...”

“What?” Emma stares. Leave Storybrooke? It’s occurred to her before, during moments of pure exasperation when she swears she never wants to lay eyes on another dwarf or hear another word about true love, but... “We can’t leave.”

“Why not?” he asks. “I’ve still got an apartment in New York. I might still have a job, and if not, I can get another one. You can do your job anywhere, and Henry liked New York.”

“Yeah, but...” She shakes her head. Her parents and Regina wouldn’t even be able to visit, not without taking a huge risk. “We can’t just take Henry away from his mother.”

“You’re his mother.”

Emma thinks back to Neverland, to the tears in Regina’s eyes when she spoke the words that finally, finally, convinced Emma that she meant it. _All I have is Henry_. “So is she.”

Neal gets that look on his face, the one that says he thinks she’s being unreasonable. “Emma, she’s the Evil Queen.”

“Was,” Emma corrects.

He rolls his eyes. “He ran away from her. Remember? And now, we just got him back from being kidnapped by Peter Pan and we’re trying to keep him safe from flying monkeys. This, all this crap, it’s not good for him. Trust me. You didn’t grow up with it, but I did.”

“You grew up with the Dark One,” Emma counters. “That’s a little different. Henry isn’t you.”

“Regina already took him away from us,” Neal says. “With the curse. Because of magic.”

“You and I only ever met _because_ of the curse,” Emma counters. This is stupid. The what-if game is a pointless one, especially in this case. Without the curse, she wouldn’t be here. Henry wouldn’t exist. Neal would be alone. “Look, Neal, I get it. It’s all a bit crazy, and scary, and just weird. But my whole family is here. And so is yours.”

He looks scornful. “My dad isn’t my family.”

“I thought you and your dad had made amends,” she says cautiously. “After Neverland?”

“I guess.” He drags a hand over his face, then shakes his head. “But I’d leave him in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Henry and you safe.”

There’s an accusation in there, Emma thinks, or at least a challenge. “I spent half my life searching for my parents,” she says, trying to make him understand. “I can’t just leave them again. And I have to think of Henry, what’s best for him.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a bitter note in Neal’s voice. “You think it’s best for Henry to have a _family_ that includes the Dark One and the Evil Queen and dwarves and pirates?” The last word comes out between clenched teeth.

The implication is crystal clear, and it slams into her gut like a ton of bricks. It’s not like that.

Emma wrestles down her temper, along with the magic that wants to burst out. “Right, sorry, one of Pan’s minions is _so_ much better.”

He looks exasperated. “I didn’t _know_ that, Emma—“

“You were engaged to her, Neal! Engaged. And now she’s dead and suddenly you’re what, in love with me again? Come on.”

He looks a little helpless, apparently thrown for a loop. “That’s not... it was... she played me, Emma.”

“I know how it feels,” she says. That’s unfair, and she knows it, but her temper is still writhing and the thought that she just inadvertently compared Neal and his _fiancée_ to her and Hook is not helping. It’s not _like_ that.

Neal throws his hands up, looking annoyed.

Emma pushes her lunch to the side. She’s not very hungry anymore.

“You know he doesn’t care, right?” Neal demands suddenly, with a sideways glare at the map. “He never will. Not really.”

Emma frowns, taken aback by the sudden outburst. “Who, Hook?”

“It’s what he does,” Neal goes on. “He says he cares, he’ll even act like it, he’ll swear up and down that he means it and he’ll make you think he’s a good guy and then, the minute he’s had enough or it gets inconvenient, he’ll turn on you like that.” He snaps his fingers.

Emma shakes her head. She doesn’t know a lot about Hook, but she knows some things, and one of the things she knows is that he went to Neverland with her and never, not once, tried to back out. It would have been easy for him to sell them all to Pan, or save himself.

“You know how I ended up with Pan?” Neal goes on, scowling at her mute denial. “ _He_ sold me to him. I confronted him about killing my mother, I refused to play nice and be the obedient little boy he wanted, and he turned on me and sold me out. I spent decades on Neverland because of him. One little thing, and all his promises meant nothing.”

“You mean like when you sold me to the cops because Pinocchio told you to?” The words flare up and burst out before Emma can stop them. Who is he, to stand there and condemn another man? Who is he, to tell her about trust and betrayal?

“That was different!” Neal yells. “I told you. I was trying to do what was best for you.”

“Maybe that’s what Hook was doing, too!” Emma yells back. It’s not true and she knows it, but that’s not the point. What Neal did wasn’t what was best for her, either. “Maybe he thought he was doing you a favour in the long run. Apparently that’s what you do when you’re trying to help someone, you sell them out.”

“Emma—“ He breaks off, a mix of anger and hurt on his face. “It’s different. I’m not a goddamn villain. He’s _Captain Hook_. He’s the reason why my mother is dead, he sold me to Pan, he... he’s got his uses, all right? He helped us get Henry back. And I know it looks like he’s turned over a new leaf and all, but that’s exactly what he told _me_ , right before he sold me to Pan.”

Emma purses her lips. She really doesn’t want to think about that right now—contrary to what Neal seems to believe, Hook has nothing to do with her decision to stay here, or with her magic. It’s not a choice between Neal and Hook, it never has been. She’s not going to base any life decisions on a man. She did that once, and it landed her in jail. The only person she’s basing any decisions on is Henry. Everything else is secondary.

And much as she might wish she could, she can’t trust Neal. She’ll never trust him like she once did.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Neal. This isn’t about Hook—“

He throws up both hands, exasperated. “Sure it’s not. Right. Well, when he turns on you, and trust me, he will, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He turns and stalks out of the station, leaving Emma to stare after him and wonder what the hell just happened.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal hurries along the sidewalk, anger lending speed to his strides as he passes by the road that leads to the park. Only a few days ago, he was there with Henry and David, teaching his boy how to wield a sword.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

No one has said anything explicit, but he can feel the shift in how David and Snow treat him. Snow’s smile tinged with reservation, David’s whole body stiff with carefully-controlled anger.

He can put it together: Emma told them what happened all those years ago. Except, clearly, she didn’t bother explaining his reasons, or allow him the chance to explain them himself.

He fights down his resentment. It’s not her fault, he reminds himself. She doesn’t owe him a chance to let him explain.

That’s what he tells himself, the old, half-forgotten lessons on good form and understanding still echoing in his head. But the words in his head keep coming to odds with the feelings in his heart.

He’s about to head back to the library when he remembers that his father texted earlier, asking to see him. And he’s out of excuses.

The pawnshop is dark and filled with an aura of mystery, an old kind of grandeur clinging to it. Neal’s eyes sweep the displays, automatically assessing the jewellery there. An old habit, and useless here. The true value of most of these pieces is not so easily ascertained.

“Bae.” His father is standing behind the counter, an open ledger before him. He smiles. “You came.”

Neal shifts on his feet. He’s not nervous, but he can feel with every fibre of his being that he doesn’t belong here. He always feels like an intruder. Like he’s being watched. Like everyone can tell that his place is not here, among these priceless artefacts. “You wanted to see me.”

“Yes.” Rumplestiltskin is smiling. “I’ve got some good news, and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

For a moment, it’s almost like no time at all has passed. For a moment, Neal is thirteen again, and his father is smiling that happy smile and telling him that their troubles are over.

But he knows better. He’s not a kid anymore, and his father lied to him.

Still, he seems to have changed. At the very least, he’s been making an effort. Neal strives for a neutral expression. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Rumplestiltskin pushes the ledger away and walks around the counter. He takes a deep breath, looking almost nervous, though his smile never wavers. “I’ve asked Belle to marry me.”

There’s a jolt somewhere in Neal’s stomach. But he recovers almost immediately, finding a smile somewhere and dragging it across his face. “Wow. What she say?”

“She said yes.” His father’s smile grows even wider, and Neal finds himself mirroring it, without even meaning to.

“Wow,” he says again. “Congratulations.”

“I gave her the dagger,” Rumplestiltskin adds, and it’s this that finally gets through to Neal.

“What?”

“I gave her the dagger. My dagger. To avoid temptation. I want a fresh start. A real one.”

Neal stares at him. His insides are in turmoil. But, he tells himself, this is a _good_ thing. His father always refused to give up his power, and yet here he is, relinquishing it. And if a woman like Belle can believe in his father, can love him, then he really must have changed.

Neal curses himself a fool, but he wants to believe it. He’s always wanted to believe it. He steps forward and lets his father pull him into a hug, still smiling past the wrenching feeling in his chest. “Congratulations,” he says again.

“Thank you,” Rumplestiltskin tells him, sounding close to tears—happy ones. “We’re going to be a family again, son. A real family.”

Neal struggles to keep the smile on his face, but his insides are roiling. A real family. A fresh start. A father who has escaped the lure of power. He wants to believe it. He wants to be happy for them, and he wants to be happy for himself.

But all he can think of is that it wasn’t him. He wasn’t enough for his father to give up his power. He wasn’t enough for Killian to turn away from vengeance. He isn’t enough for Emma.

It takes Neal another moment to realise that he doesn’t believe his father. That he’s already looking for a loophole in Rumplestiltskin’s claim to have relinquished his dagger.

Maybe, he thinks, that’s why he’s never been good enough. Because no matter how much he wants to, he can never quite believe in people the way Emma and Henry do. And no matter how much he hates it, or how much he reminds himself of fair play and good form, he can’t help feeling that it’s unfair for his father to get so many second chances while he, Neal, gets none.

He tries to will it all away as his father begins talking about weddings, and best man duties, and all of the other arrangements. He tries to ignore it and tell himself that he’s being petty and unreasonable.

But the uneasy feeling in his chest remains. And his fists clench.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma is lost in thought as she makes her way back to the loft after work. When she walks through the door, it’s to find Henry and David at the table, intent on a dice game. Henry cheers just as she enters, and David grimaces and pushes an M&M onto the pile beside Henry’s elbow—a pile that’s substantially bigger than David’s.

“Hey Emma!” Henry turns in his seat and grins at her. “Wanna play dice later?”

“Don’t do it,” David warns her with a wry smile. “He’s a fiend.”

“When d’you learn to play dice, kid?” Emma asks. She’s never heard of this hobby before.

Henry shrugs. “Killian taught me.”

And just like that, it makes sense. Both the sudden interest, and Henry’s apparent expertise. Something twists in her gut at the reminder of the pirate—and since when is he _Killian_?—but Emma looks from Henry’s brightly innocent face to David’s oblivious one and laughs, her mood lifting despite everything. “Right. Well, finish beating David and let me eat, okay?”

Snow is already filling a plate and sliding it into the microwave. Emma accepts it gratefully and curls up on the couch, trying to ignore the tension that aches in her shoulders.

When Snow joins her, Emma tilts her head towards Henry. “So when did Hook teach him how to cheat at dice?”

To her surprise, Snow looks a little guilty, rather than taken aback. “They had lunch together.”

Emma’s gut clenches, just a little. “Huh.”

“Is... that okay?” Snow is frowning. “I think it was just Henry being Henry, you know?”

Emma knows from experience that her kid makes friends easily, but the knowledge sits heavy in her stomach now. Neal’s accusations echo in her mind. The last thing she wants is for Henry to know that kind of betrayal. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Are you okay?” Snow shakes her head before Emma can even answer. “No, never mind. What’s wrong?”

Emma lets out a tired laugh. Her first instinct is to deny it all, but she re-examines it, and she can’t come up with any reason not to confide in Snow. Her mother knows a thing or two about betrayal and trust, after all, and she knows people, even if she has a tendency to look at them with rose-tinted glasses.

Besides, if Neal is right...

“Neal came by the station,” she says, keeping her voice low. David is still busy losing to Henry and making a show of it, to the kid’s absolute delight, so hopefully he won’t overhear.

“Oh?” is all Snow says.

“He was...” Emma shakes her head, waving the subject away. She does not want to start telling her mother about the possibility of leaving Storybrooke. There’s no need to bring it up. “Well, he was Neal. Never mind. But he said something about, about Hook, and it...”

“It struck a nerve?” Snow prompts.

“Not really,” Emma denies, and that one is a reflex, half-true as it is. “It’s just...”

She gives Snow a summary of what Neal told her, feeling a strange sense of betrayal even as she talks. It feels _wrong_. Hook did not start out on the best foot with any of them, and she feels like she’s being unfair, blackening his reputation behind his back. It feels like gossip, and she’s always hated gossip.

Snow nods along, and at the end, she’s silent for a moment. Then she asks, “Do you believe him?”

Emma shrugs, feeling helplessness surge again. “No. Maybe? I don’t know. I don’t think Neal was lying, but... it was a long time ago.” She laughs at the thought, a little incredulous as usual at the fact that Hook and Neal know each other from Neal’s childhood. Which was centuries ago. “A _really_ long time ago.”

“Yeah.” Snow is giving her one of those looks, the one she gets when she’s being perceptive. “So what’s bothering you? What he did, or what he might do?”

“I don’t care about—” Emma shakes her head. “I’m just worried. I mean, it’s Captain Hook. What if I’m wrong, you know? What if I’m sl—” she almost completes the idiom that’s guaranteed to give her mother the wrong idea and make them both blush furiously, “ _trusting_ the enemy? He _is_ a villain.”

“So was Regina,” Snow reminds her, that look still in her eyes. Her voice, when she goes on, is careful. “Emma... our memories are always warped by our perceptions and it’s pretty clear that Neal’s a little biased when it comes to Hook.”

That gives Emma pause. “You think he was lying?”

“I think there’s always more than one side to a story,” Snow says.

“Yeah, but this story is a million years old,” Emma reminds her. “How am I supposed to get his side of it?”

Snow shrugs. “Ask him?”

That’s where Emma’s thoughts have been heading, too, but she’s still cringing away from the idea. It’s pretty clear that Hook’s past, as a whole, is a sore subject. She can empathise with that. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“I think it is,” Snow says, a familiar earnest smile on her face. “Trust goes both ways. You trusted him with a piece of your past, right? It’s his turn.”

Emma mulls it over, but she knows that Snow is right. And she wants answers. She wants to talk to the man, look him in the eyes, and ask him. She wants to watch his face when he answers.

Another thought occurs to her, and she nods. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m going down there to talk to him.”

“Wait, right now?”

“Yes, right now.” The alternative, Emma knows, is to spend half the night lying awake wondering about Captain Hook, and she’s done that far too much lately. She digs out her phone, and calls him.

He answers on the third ring, sounding oddly hesitant. “Killian Jones.”

Emma’s lip twitches. _I know, you idiot_. “Emma Swan,” she replies. “Listen, do you have a minute?”

“For you, love?” There’s a smile in his voice, and she can see it in her mind, edged with promise and provocation, lighting his eyes. “Always.”

“Right,” she says, refusing to rise to his tone. “Well, I finally figured out how to do this whole warding thing, and I thought maybe I should do that with your ship?”

Two things occurs to her as she speaks. One, Hook does not like magic. And two, wanting to protect his ship is awfully close to wanting to protect _him_ , and he’s not likely to miss that.

She did not think this through.

“Warding?” he asks. “With magic?”

“Yeah. You know, with the flying monkeys around and all, I just thought, you know...” She winces at her own rambling, and is about to start retracting the offer, the apology on the tip of her tongue, when—

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Really? I mean, okay. Give me a few minutes.”

Fabric rustles, like he’s getting to his feet, and there’s a dull, wooden clunk in the background as something falls over. “You mean to come down right now?”

It occurs to her that people generally make arrangements like this a little more in advance. Or, at the very least, ask rather than simply assume. He probably has things to do. He might even have company. She flushes. “Well, if you’ve got time, I mean, I can—”

“No, that’s quite all right,” he assures her quickly. There’s another hurried-sounding clunk that sounds like he’s straightening whatever he just knocked over. “If you’d like to do it now, then by all means. I’ll be here.”

“Great. See you in a few, then.”

She waits for his “Aye” before she hangs up.

 

*  *  *

 

The sun has just set when she gets down to the docks, the chill in the air more than enough to warrant the thick winter jacket she’s buttoned herself into. Hook seems to be impervious to the cold breeze coming in from the sea; his shirt is half-buttoned as usual, his ears slightly red with the cold.

“Evening, Swan,” he calls, strolling along the pier to meet her.

“Hey.” She clears her throat, looking at the sailing ship that towers over them both. “You, uh, you’re sure about this?”

“About letting the Savior protect my ship?” He steps aside and gestures, bowing like someone in a period drama. “By all means, have at it.”

“I did the loft yesterday,” she assures him, even as they walk back towards the ship’s lowered gangplank. “And nothing exploded or anything, so...”

Hook laughs. “I suspect that if it were in anyone’s power to destroy this ship, it would be you, but you would have to actively try,” he says. “She’s made of enchanted wood. You won’t hurt her unless you want to.”

There’s a stupid, happy little bubble somewhere in Emma’s chest, and she swallows twice, trying to prevent it from rising up and bursting out in a giggle or something equally undignified. She clears her throat. “Right.”

Warding the ship takes even less time than the loft, the magic flowing easily. She worried about that, in the car, wondering if Hook’s presence would be a distraction. It isn’t. In fact, in a way, it’s worse: it’s reassuring.

So is the ship itself, rocking gently in its berth, the old wood creaking occasionally, the deck solid and sturdy beneath her. She thinks that she can feel the enchantment, a subtle, steady strength that holds every fibre of the ship together. She weaves the wards into it, anchoring them almost effortlessly; the ship seems to embrace her magic, almost reaching for it.

Once she finishes, she lingers, although it’s made easy by Hook asking her about the quest for flying monkeys and the fact that she knows he taught Henry about loaded dice.

“I hope you’re not trying to turn him into a pirate or something,” she warns, mock-admonishing.

He ducks his head, the faint light from the dock’s lamps catching on his eyelashes as he looks down. “He’s a bright lad. I meant no harm by it.”

She relents. “I know. Just hope David doesn’t find out. He was almost out of M&Ms when I left.”

Hook’s eyes flash back up to meet hers, brows drawing together in confusion. “Out of what?”

“M&Ms,” Emma says, and almost laughs at his expression. “They’re these little candies, with chocolate, and... never mind. I’ll show you sometime. Anyway, that’s what they were playing for, and David was losing, big time.”

Hook’s smile is proud. “The lad’s a quick study.”

Emma smiles, too. “Yeah.”

But with that thought comes the memory of the other reason why she’s here, and her smile fades a little. “Hey. Can I ask you something? It’s, uh, kinda personal.”

He gives her the exact salacious look she expected. “You know you’re welcome to get personal with me anytime, love.”

She fights back a ridiculous urge to apologise for getting his hopes up. “It’s about Neal.”

That sobers him. But he doesn’t withdraw, he just watches her with those blue eyes, and gives a tiny nod. “What do you wish to know?”

“What happened between you two?” she asks. “You met in Neverland, right?”

“Aye.” He swallows. “I fished him out of the water one night—this was back when there still was night and day back there. He spent some time aboard my ship.”

“You taught him how to sail.”

His eyes flick towards the ship’s wheel above. “Aye. To sail, to read maps, and to fight.”

“So what happened?”

Hook drops his gaze, moving past her to the ship’s railing. He leans back against it, hips shifting as he settles. “I suspected who he was from the beginning,” he says. “In our time together, I confirmed that he was the son of the Dark One, and of Milah.”

There’s no catch in his voice when he says the name, but Emma feels it anyway, like a punch.

“At first, my interest in him was as a source of information,” Hook goes on. “It was he who told me about the Dark One’s dagger. I kept him aboard the _Jolly_ _Roger_ , under my protection. As I came to know him, I saw how much he resembled his mother, and I... we had quite a bit in common, believe it or not.”

He sighs. “I also learned that he thought an unnamed pirate had killed his mother. He was, of course, unaware that I was the one so accused. I felt it prudent to withhold the truth until I could figure out how to tell it to him.”

“Why?” Emma asks before she can stop herself. “I mean, if you were innocent, why not just tell him?”

“Because his father was the real culprit,” Hook says. He raises an eyebrow. “Have you told your boy how you came to be in jail?”

Emma swallows. “No.”

“Then you know why,” Hook says with a nod. “Baelfire was only a few years older than Henry is now, and he had no reason to believe me. It’s a rather sensitive subject, and I thought there’d be time. But one day, he found a portrait of his mother in my cabin. He was bright enough to put it together, and he confronted me.”

“And?”

“He was angry,” Hook says with another sigh. “Understandably so. He accused me of the murder. I told him the truth, and I... we had always talked of going back for him, once he was old enough. I wanted to do right by him, to protect him.” He shifts again, reaching up to drag a hand across his temple. “We were in Neverland. There was no way out. I couldn’t return him home, I couldn’t do anything, other than hide him from Pan and keep him safe. And once he knew who I was, he no longer wanted that.”

Emma wants to reach out to him, but she doesn’t have it in her. She settles for taking a step towards him. “What happened?”

“I sold him out.” The words are flat, almost toneless. “Every boy who came to Neverland was claimed by Pan. I was risking his wrath by keeping the boy hidden. Conversely, handing him over meant gaining Pan’s favour. So I did.”

Emma feels cold—colder than before, colder than even the chilly air can make her. “You sold him to Pan?”

“Aye.”

He offers no excuse, no explanation, nothing to mitigate the villainy of that act. That alone is enough to tell Emma that he’s telling the truth. This isn’t a story to make himself look good. This is the truth of Captain Hook.

“Why?” she asks.

He looks surprised, but he covers it with a shrug, and looks out across the sea. Emma realises that when he moved, before, he placed himself on the other side of the gangplank. If she wants to leave, she won’t have to pass him.

As if he expects her to run.

“I was angry,” Hook says. “And hurt, in truth. He rejected my offer to stay, and I knew there was no alternative. The only choice left to me was whether I let him go to be captured alone, or whether I profited from it and moved one step closer to getting my vengeance. I chose the latter.” He shrugs again. “It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t excuse anything.”

Emma thinks of Neal, and his explanations—August, the curse, her destiny.

A prison cell, a broken heart. Henry.

“No,” she says. “I guess it doesn’t.”

But it’s still a far cry from how Neal portrayed it.

“If he’d listened,” Emma says. “If he’d wanted to... to stay, would you have let him?”

“Aye.” His voice sounds a little raw. “That was my hope. I understand why he didn’t. I’m not sure I would have, in his place. But I would have... I wanted to try. Though,” he shrugs with the shadow of a wistful smile on his face, “I don’t think he ever believed me, and I can’t fault him for it.”

Emma still can’t detect a lie. She also doesn’t know what to say. It’s clear that Hook was hurt by Neal’s rejection just as much as Neal was hurt by Hook’s betrayal. And it’s equally clear, now, that it wasn’t the sudden change of heart that Neal described.

First magic, now this. Neal seems to be determined to see the worst in everything, these days.

The thought of Hook raising Neal aboard a pirate ship is a strange one, and she can’t help but feel a tiny bit relieved that it didn’t work out, even though she feels bad for the thought and she definitely doesn’t want to examine the reasons.

“That’s why I turned back,” Hook goes on after another moment. “Why I volunteered for the Neverland trip.”

Emma’s eyes snap to his again. This, too, is something she’s been wondering about, although there’s no way in hell she would have asked. “Because of Neal?”

“In a way, I suppose.” Hook shrugs uneasily. “I’d betrayed him and left him to his fate. I didn’t want to do the same with his son. Nor with you, or the others,” he adds, a little awkward, in that way he sometimes gets when he’s had to forego the bravado in favour of the truth.

Emma is silent while the words settle into her mind. It’s the first time he’s said anything about why he decided to turn back, and she’s been wondering, on and off. A sudden desire to do the right thing always seemed unlikely to her—people don’t suddenly develop a conscience.

She’s wondered, worried really, whether it was about her. Whether he’ll go back to his vengeance if or when he gives up on her. It’s a relief to realise that it’s not about her at all. It’s not about Neal, or Henry, or anyone. It’s about him.

He did the right thing, not to impress her, or out of guilt, but because he wants to.

“Good,” she says. A small, inadequate word for all the things she wants to say, but she can’t seem to find any more words, or even any bigger, more meaningful ones. “I... thanks.”

That seems to surprise him. “For what?”

“Telling me,” she says. _Trusting me_.

His eyes, from what she can see in the dim light, soften. “Any time, love.” He hesitates. “May I ask why the sudden interest?”

She doesn’t want to answer that, but after the way he just answered her, she can hardly deny him. “Neal sort of... brought it up,” she says as casually as she can.

Hook’s mouth twists. “And by that, I assume you mean he told you the whole sordid tale.”

“Sort of. His version of it, anyway.”

“I take it that it differs slightly from mine.” She can’t make out his expression, but she can hear it in his voice. He’s cautious, worried, not sure she believes him.

The thing is, even without her superpower, she has more reason to believe Hook than Neal. A weird realisation, but it’s true nevertheless.

“’course,” she says. “His was definitely angrier.”

Hook lets out a dry sound that might be a laugh. She can almost hear the words he doesn’t say. _Aye, I should think so._

Emma bites her lip. “Look, I’m not... it’s none of my business, what happened between you two. I just wanted to...” She breaks off. What _did_ she want?

To know whether or not Hook is going to turn around one day and leave as quickly as he burst into her life, but she can’t really tell him that. It’ll give him the wrong impression. Or the right one, which is even worse.

“Hear both sides?” Hook suggests. “This tale only has the one, I’m afraid. I was a villain, and I acted as one.”

She reminds herself that she isn’t here to absolve him of his crimes, nor to forgive him for them. It isn’t her place to forgive him. “I just wanted to know the reasons.”

“The reasons hardly matter,” he presses out. “Everyone always has reasons. It doesn’t excuse anything. It changes nothing.”

He sounds angry now. Her first instinct is to insist that of course it changes something, but she bites back the words when she realises that he doesn’t know what Neal told her. As far as he’s concerned, there is only one story, and it’s one where he is the villain. And that’s true, but Emma has learned by now that there are different kinds of villainy, and some of them matter more than others.

He turned on Neal because Neal rejected him. He turned on her after she left him handcuffed in a giant’s lair, too, but she can hardly blame him for that. He hasn’t done it since. He doesn’t do it when she rejects him, or pushes him away. He didn’t do it in Neverland, when David was trying out his protective dad side.

As far as she’s concerned, that makes a big difference. That’s what she came here to find out.

Emma has no idea why he’s _angry_ about it, but it’s not the first time—she’s never met anyone else who’ll defend their own status as a villain and a pirate like he does. It’s not even a point of pride, as far as she can tell. She doesn’t know what it is. But she doesn’t want to argue about it, either.

“I know it doesn’t,” she says, and if she sounds a little defensive, he can hardly blame her. “I was just... I just wanted to...” She _can’t_ tell him her reasons, not now, not when she’s still processing everything he told her.

“It didn’t fit what I know about you,” is what she settles on.

She’s not sure that this is any better, upon reflection. But it’s too late now.

Again, he looks surprised. And then his expression becomes just a little hopeful, and Emma realises that she has made, not a mistake exactly, but a tactical error.

“No?” he asks, and his voice is soft, still a little rough, but low and soft and unguarded. “But it was me, Swan. You know that side of me. It’s the first one you ever met.”

_Not the way Neal told it._ But that’s definitely gossip, and not a subject she wants to pursue right now. “That’s not what I meant. I just... it’s different to how you were in Neverland, and... and everything,” she finishes, spectacularly eloquent.

He doesn’t seem to mind. “That was me, too.” His voice is somewhere between uncertainty and relief. “A rather better side, I think. One I thought lost for a long time.”

“But you found it again,” she says, and her voice is as soft as his now.

“Aye.” He clears his throat. “It seems that I have.”

So much for his protestations that he’s still a pirate—the recent fishing boat escapade notwithstanding. But Emma is the last person to judge someone for clinging to a persona that keeps them safe from hurt. She knows that game all too well.

She’s not here to absolve him, or forgive him, she reminds herself. But she can’t help wanting to make it better. Especially since she’s the reason why he’s looking like that. She’s the one who asked. It feels like there’s something broken between them, and it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be. She wants to fix it, but she doesn’t know how.

She wishes she were half as good with words as he. In lieu of that, she offers him a smile. “I’m glad.”

She realises that she has, at some point, taken a step towards him, or maybe several steps. He’s still settled against the railing, but the distance between them seems to have melted away. If she stretches her hand out, she could lay it on his shoulder, or his cheek, or...

 “Aye, love,” he says softly. “Me, too.”

She still seems to be moving closer to him, Emma realises. In fact, unless she’s much mistaken, she has just taken another step towards him. Maybe that’s just her body moving instinctively in search of more oxygen, because it seems to be in short supply where she’s been standing.

Weird.

She can see Hook’s throat work as he swallows, his eyes on hers, unwavering as always. He looks like a man on the edge, caught between hurt and hope and a quiet sort of desperation that’s holding his whole body tense.

She wants to reach for him. She wants to soothe away that tension. She wants to fix this, to tell him that nothing is broken, but she doesn’t have the words.

But she’s lifting her hand, and it’s like she’s caught in a current, a current that’s pulling her towards him, and she knows, she _knows_ , that her hand is going to slip around his neck and she’s going to kiss him—

Common sense seems to slam into her with an almost physical jolt. She can’t kiss him. Not _him_ , with his smile and his eyes and his stupid _feelings_ that seem to all but leak out of him with every look.

She’s still caught in that current, still driven by that urge to make it better, to tell him it’s okay, he’s okay, they’re okay. She can’t stop, but she manages to change direction enough to hug him instead.

Hugs are okay. Hugs are friendly. Granted, she has never hugged him before, and the brief glimpse she gets of his expression is a little terrifying in its intensity, but she can justify it. They’re friends, aren’t they? Friends hug. It’s customary in this realm.

Not that Hook seems inclined to question it, either way. His arms go around her, hesitant but reassuring, and gentler than she would have expected. He’s warm, and solid, and her cheek is resting against the soft satin of his vest, and for a moment she lets her eyes drift shut. She fancies that she can hear his heart beat, or maybe that’s hers, strong and a little fast in her ear. She’s surrounded by leather and the scent of the sea and Granny’s laundry detergent and _him_ and she did not think this through.

When she pulls away again, he lets her go immediately, arms dropping back to his sides.

“I, uh,” Emma says, and she’s back to her lack of words, it seems. “I should go.”

“Right,” he says. He looks a little dazed. “Well, thank you.”

“For what?” she says, a little too quickly. She hasn’t given him anything. This isn’t anything. He’d better not try to make it a... a moment. Or whatever.

“The warding,” he says, seeming to recover himself. “And, well, hearing me out, as it were.”

“Right,” Emma says, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “Sure. Good. Well, I gotta go. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He grins at her. “Of course, love.”

She almost, _almost_ , pauses at the top of the gangway to look back at him. She knows he’s watching her go, and she wants one last look at him, at the look on his face, the grin that she knows is probably lingering there.

She doesn’t. In fact, she makes it all the way back to her car before looking back at the _Jolly Roger_ , a faint but unmistakable silhouette in the distance, and ceding to the smile that’s been trying to break over her face. She feels strangely light. She wants to run all the way home. Or maybe fly home. A pity that her bug doesn’t have a shadow-sail or something. She ought to look into that.

She shakes her head at herself. What a ridiculous thought.

But her smile stays in place anyway.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal wanders around the little park in Storybrooke, lost in thought. He left his father’s house shortly after Belle arrived, unable to keep the smile on his face any longer. His fists keep clenching, and he has a bad feeling about it all.

He tried calling Emma, not even sure what he’d say if she answered, but it didn’t matter. She isn’t picking up. And he can’t help the knot of resentment in his stomach about that, either.

Emma has forgiven _Killian_ , for crying out loud. She and the pirate are practically best friends these days, from the looks of it. The man is always around. From what Zelena mentioned oh-so-casually earlier, he had lunch with Neal’s son today. He helps out at the sheriff station, all while Emma is learning more magic, and she has no problems making excuses for _him_ while Neal doesn’t even get a chance to explain.

The worst part is that he has seen this before. He’s lived through this story before. Magic and its lure, taking a good person, and slowly corrupting their morals. He still doesn’t understand why or how, but he knows that magic is to blame for his father’s decline into darkness. He’s a good man without it. Emma is a good woman. But she isn’t the woman he remembers. Nowadays, she learns magic from the Evil Queen and trusts Captain Hook, the man who tore Neal’s family apart once before.

And in the meantime, his father is building a new family with Belle. Emma has found a new family with Henry and her parents. And Neal is alone. Alone to watch the woman he loves follow the same dark path as his father, utterly convinced that she’s right, refusing to listen to reason.

And this time, his son’s life and happiness are on the line.

Neal grits his teeth as the old fear coils inside him. All of his research so far has yielded nothing. No means of taking away someone’s magic.

_Well... there is one thing._

Zelena’s voice and face hover in his mind. She was almost apologetic when she suggested it, knowing his stance on magic. And he rejected it out of hand. He doesn’t want to use magic—not even for this.

But it looks like his only chance. The only way to save Emma, to save his family. After all, if it works on Emma, it might work on his father, too. It would be trickier, according to Zelena, especially since Rumplestiltskin is probably aware of it... but it’s a possibility. Especially now that his father is engaged to a woman he evidently loves with all his heart, and who loves him back.

Neal slows down, and takes out his phone. He stares at Zelena’s contact, his heart pounding.

He doesn’t want to use magic. He certainly doesn’t want to be the carrier of this spell, and Henry is out of the question. It’s part of why he rejected the idea of it—it requires someone to carry the spell, to pass it to Emma.

But it occurs to him that there might be another option. He’s seen the looks, the expressions, that gentleness about Killian whenever he’s around Emma. It might be enough. It might work. And after all, it’s only fitting, really. It’s long-overdue. A debt to be paid.

And the result is worth it. Henry’s safety is worth it. And Emma will thank him, in the end.

Zelena answers on the second ring. “Yes?”

“Hey,” he says. “Listen, I thought about what you said. About the spell. You really think it’ll work?”

“Oh, it works,” Zelena assures him. “But it’s totally understandable that it’s not to your taste. I wish there was a way to do it without a carrier, but I’m afraid—”

“Yeah, about that.” Neal clears his throat. “I think there’s another way. Killian Jones.”

There’s a pause. “The pirate? Hook?”

“Yeah.” Neal’s throat is still dry, but he nods. “Meet me at the library. I think I know what you can use.”


	11. Chapter 11

To his own surprise, Killian sleeps well that night. Perhaps it’s the knowledge of the new magical wards protecting his ship, and him, from flying monkeys. Or perhaps it’s the gentle, reassuring rocking of the _Jolly Roger_.

It could also be the memory of holding Emma Swan in his arms for one glorious, terrifying, perfect minute.

But whatever the reason, Killian wakes up calm, well-rested, and with a smile on his face. This is such a startling feeling that he almost forgets to clean behind his ears, his mind wandering.

Something changed, last night. He’s not sure what, or why. He fully expected some manner of condemnation, perhaps even outrage or disgust, after he recounted his past crimes against Neal. He still isn’t sure where the hug came from.

Then again, Emma Swan has always been good at surprising him. In some regards, he can read her all too well, but he still hasn’t quite figured her out. He has a feeling that he never will.

Killian manages to dress, wash, and put his quarters to rights without forgetting anything, though with enough fumbling and occasional reflective pauses and entirely ridiculous unprompted smiles at nothing whatsoever to be embarrassing, should anyone see.

But no one is around to see, so it’s all right.

He forgot to ask Emma whether she wants his help for anything today, and he’s heard nothing from her, and he’s not sure how to bring up the subject now without completely abandoning the pirate persona in the process. So he busies himself with the ship until lunch time creeps around and he considers making the trek into town, to Granny’s, cursing himself a fool and coward all the while.

Before he can decide either way, he gets a visitor.

It’s Eric, and he brings lunch and a smile so genuine that Killian can’t resent him for taking the decision out of his hands.

“For the rum,” Eric says with a smile, taking some fish sandwiches, a box of what appear to be cookies and an odd-looking flask out of the basket. “Figured I owe you.”

Killian grins. “I appreciate it. The catch of the day, I take it?”

“Uh-huh.” Eric hands him a sandwich, and they sit together on the deck, despite the cold. It’s an overcast day, blustery and grey, and it makes Killian yearn to set sail for warmer shores. “I won’t ask about yours.”

Killian holds up both arms before taking the food. “No catch here, mate. I’m reformed.”

Eric looks him up and down, taking in the sword belted at his side and the skull-and-blade charms around his neck, and chuckles. “Sure.”

They talk while they eat, Eric sharing some of his knowledge about this realm’s ships and sailing supplies, Killian returning the favour by sharing tales of some of his conquests, and the secrets behind them. The prince takes it with good grace and humour, and even admits to being impressed.

It should probably bother him, sharing the secrets of his trade with a royal. But then, Killian thinks to himself, there’s plenty more where these came from. He’s got several centuries’ worth of tricks to draw from, after all.

“Why did you become a pirate, anyway?” Eric asks him eventually. “You clearly have an honourable side.”

He asks casually, like he’s unaware of the way the weight of the question hits Killian right in the chest. Like it’s not a big deal.

Maybe it’s not.

 “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Killian says, with perhaps a little more force than he intended. “It isn’t as though serving in the royal navy automatically makes one honourable. I saw my share of corruption there.”

“You served in the navy?” Eric is incredulous.

“Aye, many centuries ago.” A few weeks ago, Killian would have snapped at anyone who asked him about this part of his life. But since confiding in Charming—ulterior motives aside—it seems to have become easier, like some sort of dam has broken down, or at least become a little porous. “My brother and I were officers in the royal navy, he a captain and I a lieutenant. The king’s dishonour led to my brother’s death, so I swore never to serve a king again.”

Eric swallows. “What dishonour?”

A part of Killian, the dark, vengeful part, has always taken a savage delight in this, in laying bare the treason and cowardice of men who claim to be better because of some accident of birth. And it’s that part of him that has him telling Eric everything, the king’s mission, the dreamshade, Liam’s stubbornness and death. So much for royalty. So much for honour.

They both know that the king in question was an ancestor of Eric’s. Killian doesn’t say it, and Eric doesn’t ask.

“I’m sorry,” is all Eric says.

The darkness falls away and Killian feels suddenly ashamed. Eric has never shown a hint of pretension. He works as a fisherman, for crying out loud.

Killian clears his throat, and nods. “As am I.”

Eric holds out the flask—a _thermos_ , he called it. Killian has no idea why they don’t just say “heat”, but then again, English has always borrowed an awful lot from Greek and Latin and he supposes there’s no reason it would stop doing so in this realm. “More tea?”

Killian holds out his mug. But just then, movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he jumps to his feet when he realises that it’s a person, out in the water. Thoughts of flying monkeys barrel through his mind, and he drops the mug and hurries over to the railing. “Please tell me that’s your mermaid lady, mate!” he calls back to Eric.

Eric hurries to join him, face splitting in a wide smile. “Yeah, that’s her. Ariel!”

He waves. Far out in the water, the figure waves back.

Killian lets out a relieved breath.

“Ready for another daring rescue, were you?” Eric asks, a teasing gleam in his eye. “Pirate?”

“Pirate or not, it’s bad form to let someone drown,” Killian says, a little grumpy. At this rate, he’s going to have to commandeer one of these ridiculous fishing vessels just to save his reputation.

“Glad to hear it,” Eric tells him. “Come on, come meet Ariel. You’ll like her.”

That gives Killian pause. Most men, in his experience, have not been very eager to introduce him to their ladies. Eric, however, shows no sign of hesitation or worry as he leads the way down to the pier, out to where the mermaid is pulling herself out of the water. As the two men approach, she fiddles with something on her wrist, and moments later, she’s getting to her feet.

Killian feels his eyebrows rise. He’s been wondering about the whole mermaid thing, but didn’t think it polite to bring that up. Apparently, these two really have found a way to make it work.

Ariel is a pretty, red-haired young woman with a bright smile and the most open, curious gaze Killian has ever seen. “Nice to meet you, Captain,” she tells him, holding out a hand.

He takes it gently, like she’s a lady at court, and bows over it. “It’s Killian, please, milady. And the pleasure is all mine.”

“Careful,” Eric tells her with a grin. “He’s a scoundrel. I should warn you. Don’t believe a word he tells you.”

“You wound me.” Killian makes a show of it, clutching at his chest.

Ariel laughs, a delighted, surprised sound, as she realises that they’re joking. “I’m glad you’ve made a friend,” she tells Eric.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call him a friend,” Eric says, with a feigned glare at Killian.

“Aye, but that doesn’t change the truth of it,” Killian says airily. “Your lady love has the measure of you, it seems.”

“Didn’t think pirates made friends with royalty,” Eric challenges.

“It’s strategy,” Killian says, deadpan. “Piracy does become ever so much easier when you’re friends with the ruling monarch.”

“And the sheriff?” Eric suggests, that gleam back in his eyes.

Killian bites back a denial, and grins instead. “Aye, and the sheriff.”

Ariel’s expression, which grew alarmed initially, relaxes back into a smile. “Right. You were joking.”

Killian takes pity on her. “Aye, lass. I’ve not engaged in actual piracy for quite some time. And your prince is surprisingly good company, for a royal.”

Ariel smiles up at Eric, who smiles back and puts an arm around her, hugging her to his side.

“And speaking of,” Killian goes on, “I’d best get back to my ship and leave you two in peace.”

Eric looks like he agrees with this plan, but Ariel frowns and shakes her head. “No, wait. You know the sheriff? Emma Swan? So you must know Snow, as well, right?”

“After a fashion,” Killian says carefully.

“He’s her daughter’s suitor,” Eric explains.

Ariel’s face lights up. “Aww! Really?”

“No.” Killian glowers at Eric. “I’m a pirate, not a suitor.”

“One doesn’t rule out the other,” Eric says cheerfully. “And lying to yourself doesn’t make it less true. I know how it is, _mate_. Remember?” Eric gives Ariel a significant look. “Against the odds, but here we are.”

“Aye, well, they’re slightly different odds in my case,” Killian says, and then, before Eric can say anything else, he turns back to Ariel. “But as it happens, yes, I do know Snow White.”

“Right.” She’s still giving him an appraising sort of look, one he knows well. Damn Eric, anyway. This is what comes of breaking bread with royalty. He wonders just how angry Emma would be with him if he stole a fishing boat, or perhaps held up Tanner’s marine supply store, just to prove he still can. “Then you can tell me where to find her?” Ariel goes on. “I need to give her something.”

She digs in a beaded bag that she carries on a string at her side, and produces a small vial full of a dark liquid. Squid ink, unless Killian is much mistaken. “She asked me to get her this and I need to give it to her as quickly as possible.”

“She’ll be working now,” Killian says, looking up at the sky. It’s barely after noon, and he knows that school will go on for another few hours yet.

“Oh.” Ariel frowns. “She said she’d meet me here. I didn’t know she _works_.”

Killian shrugs, a little lost. It seems a rather tenuous arrangement, considering that Snow has no way of knowing when Ariel would return. As far as he knows, Snow White doesn’t make it a habit to spend time at the docks; he hasn’t seen her down here since their return from Neverland.

Killian looks at Eric. It’s pretty clear that the two lovers are eager to spend some quality time alone. It’s just as clear that Ariel is determined to complete her mission first.

“I could get it to her,” he offers. “If you wish. I’ll be here for another while, and if she fails to show up, I know where she lives. I can deliver it.”

Ariel’s eyes are wide. “Would you?”

He shrugs, a grin tugging at his mouth. “If you’re willing to trust a pirate.”

She smiles. “Sure. It’s not like this stuff is really worth anything, anyway. Besides, I know where you live.”

“And I know the sheriff,” Eric puts in, a knowing look in his eyes.

“As you delight in reminding me.” Killian takes the vial of squid ink from Ariel, wondering yet again what the hell Snow White wants with such a thing. “I’ll get it to her. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Cap—Killian,” Ariel says.

She and Eric take their leave shortly after that, leaving Killian to his ship and his thoughts. He fully expects that he’ll have to make the trek to Snow’s loft later, but there’s no point until she’s home from work. And if Emma is home by then, too... well, that would just be a happy coincidence, wouldn’t it?

Tucking the vial of squid ink into a pouch at his belt, he gets back to work, though his mind keeps straying. He isn’t sure whether Ariel knows about the uses of squid ink, but he does. Its most important quality is its ability to bind magic; it can be used to temporarily incapacitate a person, even a magic user, or to store magic on a piece of parchment or the pages of a book.

What does Snow want with such a thing? Protection against the wicked witch, perhaps, if she is indeed here or ever shows up?

“Killian!”

The voice echoes up from the pier, and Killian feels it jolt right through him. The use of his name would give the speaker away even if he didn’t know the voice.

Baelfire.

The man appears moments later, peering at him from the top of the gangplank. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Killian echoes, trying and failing not to feel nervous. And guilty.

He has nothing to feel guilty about, he reminds himself. Emma sought _him_ out.

Though he is admittedly hoping to run into her at the loft later.

And she sought him out in order to talk about Neal. After _arguing_ with Neal, unless he completely misread that.

What a mess of a situation.

Neal is looking apprehensive, of all things. Apprehensive, and maybe a little upset, his head ducked and his shoulders hunched. “Can I talk to you?”

Killian fights back a surge of dread. If this is about Emma, he’ll...

He doesn’t know what he’ll do. It just better not be about Emma, that’s all.

Neal takes his time, shuffling over to the railing to lounge against it. Killian stays silent, bent over the ratline he’s mending, knowing that Neal will speak when he’s ready.

When he finally does, it’s none of the things Killian might have expected. “My dad’s getting married.”

Killian’s head whips up so fast that he almost gets dizzy. “What?”

“My dad’s getting married,” Neal repeats. “To Belle. You know.”

Killian does know. He knows all about Belle, and how the crocodile feels about her. “Ah. Congratulations.” He doesn’t bother trying not to sound bitter. They’d both know it for a lie.

“Yeah. Well.” Neal is silent for a moment. “So I wanted to ask you, about... about my mother.”

Killian’s heart skips, just once, as memories of bright smiles and wind-whipped, long dark hair flit through his mind. The old pain has lessened a little, but it’s still there. It still hurts. “What about her?”

“I still don’t really know what happened,” Neal says. “I know you tried to tell me, and I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to hear it. But, well, I do now.”

The words don’t sound like they’re Neal’s at all, strangely stilted. But Killian supposes that it’s hardly an easy thing for the lad—no, the man—to talk about.

Killian puts down the ratline and joins Neal at the railing, trying to think of how to say it. It was easier last time, yelling out the truth in anger and desperation. The truth hasn’t changed, but the words probably ought to.

“We met in the tavern near the docks,” Killian says eventually. “When I was in port, she would come down, and we would drink, and gamble, and talk. I knew she was unhappy at home—because of her husband, not her son. Not you. She loved you.”

Neal’s jaw clenched. “She left me.”

“She thought it was for the best,” Killian tells him, the old ache filling his chest again. “She told me about the strife with her husband, about the way you would cry, how she could never be the mother you deserved because she was always so close to despair herself. She thought it was best to leave you with your father, who, for all his faults, always loved you and had time for you.”

“Oh, sure,” Neal says. “Except for that minor thing where he became the Dark One. He still says he did it for me, you know. They both did it all for me.” He laughs, a harsh, dry sound. “My dad terrified our entire village and murdered half the people in it—for me. It’s bullshit. It was never about me. I was just an excuse.”

Killian swallows. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Neal grits out. “But what kind of father does that? And what kind of mother abandons her child to run off with a pirate? Don’t try to tell me she had my best interests at heart. She wanted a better life for herself, not me. All _I_ ever wanted was my parents. My family.”

“She always wanted to come back for you—” Killian starts, but Neal shakes his head jerkily.

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter. Because she didn’t. And if she hadn’t met _you_--” He breaks off with an angry shake of his head.

Killian doesn’t know what to say. He knows how it feels to lose one’s parents, to be left behind. He also knows that Milah never intended that. She thought she was leaving Bae with a loving father who would look after him, and removing a source of unhappiness from his life.

Killian doesn’t have to wonder what she would have done, had she known about Rumplestiltskin’s turn to darkness. She would have turned back and fought for Bae, and Killian would have been at her side, to the end.

“You just keep doing it.” Neal’s voice is rough, barely above a whisper. His hands are clenched, his forearms resting on the railing. “First my mother. Now Emma. Are you gonna take her away from Henry, too?”

Killian’s heart sinks to somewhere in his gut. “I have no intention of taking any of Henry’s parents away from him.”

Neal scoffs a laugh. “Right. Y’know, every time I think I’ve got a family, you show up to ruin it. First you take my mother. Then you try to kill my dad. Now you’re trying to take Emma and Henry. It’s always you.”

Killian wants to deny it, but he can’t. Milah made her own choice, but he enabled it, didn’t he? And he has tried to kill Rumplestiltskin—though everything he heard from Neal before suggested that he wants nothing to do with his father. As for Emma...

Yes, he promised to back off. And he did. But Emma, like Milah, still gets to make her own choices.

Still, he can’t deny that he enables it. He could have walked away. He could have set sail two weeks ago, returned to the Enchanted Forest, stayed away from Emma.

The thing is, he’s pretty sure by now that had he done so, Emma would be no more positively inclined towards Neal than she currently is.

“Everything I want,” Neal goes on. “Everything I try _so hard_ to have, and it just falls into your lap, doesn’t it? How is that fair?”

The words don’t quite ring true—it isn’t as though Killian hasn’t made his own sacrifices for Emma and Henry and the rest, and it isn’t as though Killian’s life has been sunshine and roses—but Neal has a point. It _is_ always him, isn’t it? Killian imagines how it would feel if their positions were reversed. He knows what it is to lose a parent, or a lover... even a child, in a way, though Bae was never really _his_.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Oh, you’re sorry,” Neal spits. “I guess that makes it all better.”

“I don’t know how to make it better,” Killian bursts out. “B—Neal. I promise you, I’ve no intention of taking anyone away from you—”

“Do you love her?” Neal asks abruptly.

“What?”

“Emma,” Neal says. “I want to know, is she just another conquest?”

“What? Of course she’s not a conquest.” Killian stares at him. “Never that.”

“Do you love her?”

Killian has been trying not to think about that. He knows it, somewhere deep down, much as he wishes he didn’t. His throat is dry. “Aye.”

“Of course you do.” Neal rolls his eyes. “And let me guess, you just can’t help yourself, right? You said you’d stay away and not come between us, but you just can’t help how you feel. You want it, so you take it.”

“That’s not it,” Killian says, even as he wonders if it’s true. He feels like he’s been scraped raw, memories of Milah and the crocodile and Emma—that kiss—tearing at him. He’s always fought for what he wants. Taken things without permission, without regard for their owners.

Things, he reminds himself. Things. Not people. Never that.

The difference rings hollow in his chest. Neal’s family _is_ broken, and Killian is the one standing in the wreckage, isn’t he?

“You don’t know what love is,” Neal says savagely. “You just want to take, and take, and take. You don’t care who gets left behind.”

From most other people, these words would have little effect, or perhaps coax him to anger. From Neal, they hit deep, in the same place that ached every time Milah spoke of her son, the place that has been aching ever since Neal was carried off by Pan’s boys, yelling all the way. His eyes are stinging. “I told you, I have no intention of taking anyone away from you. I’ve never wanted that.”

“Swear it,” Neal says, and the words seem to focus something in him. “Swear to me, on her name.”

Killian has to swallow again. All he wants is for Neal to know that he means it, that he never meant to hurt him, that he never meant for him to be left behind. “I swear on Emma Swan.”

Neal’s angry expression shifts into something else, something strange. He steps back from the railing and smiles. “Thank you, Killian. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

His inflection has changed, and again, the words don’t sound like they’re his. There’s a burst of green smoke, and Neal is gone. In his place stands a familiar red-haired woman wearing a green coat and a triumphant smile. She waves a hand, and Killian’s mouth suddenly feels like it’s on fire and freezing all at once. The sensation fades immediately, but it leaves his lips tingling, and he can feel it at once: something is very, very wrong.

“Zelena,” he manages, his breath stinging past his lips. “What the bloody hell—”

“Sorry about that,” she says breezily. “But sometimes a little deception is necessary. I’m sure you understand all about that.”

“Where’s Neal?” Killian demands.

“Oh, relax, he’s fine,” Zelena says. “Probably off moping about Emma, or whatever it is he likes to do these days.”

Killian’s hand has drifted to his lips, tracing the still-tingling sensation. “What did hell have you done to me?”

“Nothing to worry about,” she assures him. He doesn’t believe her for a second. She leans in conspiratorially. “Incidentally, I’m on your side with that whole,” she waves a hand, “love triangle thing you’ve got going on. Emma is half in love with you already, anyone can see that. Team Hook all the way.” She smiles.

Killian, however, was not born anywhere close to yesterday. “How kind of you,” he says. “And what’s your interest in that?”

“Just a bystander,” Zelena says with a shrug. “Like everyone else, really. And let me tell you, we’re all getting a little annoyed, I mean, how long can two people dance around each other for? Everyone knows it’s meant to be. If I were you, I’d take a leaf out of Eric’s book—or movie, whatever. Just kiss the girl.”

It’s difficult to keep his mind on the conversation; the thought of Emma being half in love with him, or even just genuinely interested, is a hell of a distraction. But he can’t afford the luxury of day dreams right now. Zelena is here for a reason, and she did whatever she did to his lips for a reason.

His lips. Kiss the girl.

It doesn’t take a genius to put it together. He’s a bit annoyed it even took him this long. Something cold is coiling in his core, but he doesn’t let on. He leans back, his stance purposely arrogant. “I don’t think I will,” he says. “Emma is proving to be rather too difficult for my taste. She’s made it quite plain that she doesn’t want me.”

Zelena looks annoyed. Good at magic she might be, Killian thinks, but Zelena is a terrible liar. Her emotions and thoughts are almost as clear as though they were written on her forehead—and Killian is used to deciphering Emma’s. Zelena presents no challenge at all.

“No, she hasn’t,” she says impatiently, but with a hint of panic that confirms Killian’s suspicion. “I’m telling you—”

“You’ve done something,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Some sort of curse, if I had to wager a guess. So I’m not going to kiss Emma. I’m not even going to _touch_ her until I know what you’ve done.”

Zelena’s careless smile gives way to a darker expression, malevolent and sneering. “Yes, you will. See, you are my agent now, Captain.”

“Hardly,” Killian sneers back.

Zelena ignores him. “I knew I could count on you to invoke her name selfishly, in your quest for forgiveness.” She spits the last word in his face. And with a start, Killian recognises the look on her face, the anger in her voice. This is a woman out for revenge. More than that: a woman who wants to seize everything she’s been denied.

Including, it seems, him. “And now you’re _mine_ ,” she goes on.

Killian’s fist clenches at the words, but he wrestles back his temper. He needs more information. “Hardly,” he sneers. “And I highly doubt any curse of yours can hurt Emma, anyway.”

“Please,” Zelena scoffs. “She’s a newbie. She can barely control her magic.”

“You’re no match for her,” Killian goads. “Her magic’s more powerful than yours.”

“It won’t be once I’ve taken it,” Zelena snaps. There’s a flicker in her expression after she says it, like she’s just said more than she meant to.

There’s the answer, then. Something hard and heavy lurches down into Killian’s stomach. He feels sick.

But he knows vengeance, and he knows battles, and he’s not going to back down. “I won’t do it.”

“Yes, you will,” Zelena assures him. “And she’ll lose everything that makes her powerful, makes her special. No more magic. No more Savior.”

Killian clenches his fist and steps towards her. She’s almost as tall as he is, but he stares her down with all the experience that several centuries of piracy gives a man. “If you think that’s all that makes her special, you’re very much mistaken. Just as you are about me. I won’t do it. I’ll tell her. You’ve tipped your hand now, _milady_ , and we’ll stop you.”

“You’re not going to do anything!” Zelena waves her hand again, a sadistic gleam in her eyes, and Killian feels something tickle inside his throat, all the way down to his chest. It feels wrong; _he_ feels wrong, like his body isn’t quite his own anymore. “You’re not telling her anything. You’ll play your part.”

“No bloody way.”

“Then I’ll just have to kill her,” Zelena snarls. “And you along with her.”

“Try it,” Killian snarls back, his hand going to his sword. “But we both know you won’t. Or can’t. If you could kill her, you would have tried it, but you haven’t.”

Zelena does her best to keep the superior look on her face, but it’s not hard to see the effort it takes her.

He’s right. Whatever the reason, she can’t harm Emma directly, or is unwilling to risk it.

He pushes away his own fears and anger, and grins, baring his teeth. “You’re no match for her,” he says softly. “And I’m not going to help you.”

Zelena glares at him. “I may not be able to hurt her, but I _can_ hurt you.”

He laughs in her face, because no matter what she has in mind, he’s survived worse. He already knows she can’t hurt Emma, and threatening him with torture or the like is laughable. “Please, try it,” he says. “We can make it a challenge. Find a way to hurt me that I’ve not yet endured. I promise I’ll let you know if you find one.”

He has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen just a little—she really does carry her emotions on her sleeve. “Then I’ll hurt someone else,” she snaps. “Her parents. Or her little brat. You _will_ take away her magic, or I promise you, you’ll regret it. Oh, and—” She looks down, snaps her fingers, and the vial of ink disappears from his grasp and reappears in hers. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

The penny drops—far too late. “It wasn’t Snow who sent Ariel to get it.”

“Oh, _very_ good, Captain,” Zelena says approvingly. “Yes, that was me. And now I’ve got to go. Big plans, you know. You’ve got your task, I’ll leave you to get on with it. Ta ta.”

There’s a swirl of green smoke, and she’s gone.

Thoughts and emotions tangle together in Killian’s head, but he pushes it all aside. The squid ink. Zelena needed the squid ink, and squid ink only has one use: to immobilise and bind magic.

She’s going after a magic user. And that can’t possibly bode well.

Killian leaves his ship at a run, digging his phone out of his satchel on the way.

Emma answers on the third ring. “Hook, sorry, this isn’t a good ti—”

“Swan, listen to me,” he cuts her off, with a brief stab of guilt at his lack of manners. “Zelena is the Wicked Witch.”

“What? Who the hell is Zelena?” Emma demands. “Hook, what—are you in trouble?”

He probably does sound a little breathless. “No, I’m en route into town. She just came by the ship and took some squid ink, which means—”

“She’s after a magic user,” Emma says, sounding resigned. “Damn it.”

“It’s not you,” he informs her shortly.

“How do you—”

“She implied as much.” He leaves the docks behind, tearing along the road towards the town centre. He’s not sure what he’ll do once he gets there, but he knows he needs to move. “You’re safe. But the others—”

“Right. Well, I’m out in the forest right now, I’ll call Regina and tell her to get to her vault, bunker down?”

“Aye. And have her take the lad, if she can,” Killian says. “As a precaution.”

Emma doesn’t question it. “Okay. I’ll call Gold, too. Where are you?”

“On the road into town,” he says.

“Make for Gold’s shop,” Emma says. “I’ll meet you there. We’ll probably need his help. If anything happens, I’ll call you.”

“Understood.”

“Be careful.” There’s a click, and the connection breaks. Phone still in hand, Killian leans into his run, as the familiar road turns onto the main street of Storybrooke.

Gold’s shop looks the same as always, quiet and elegantly ominous. Or maybe that’s just Killian’s bias flavouring the look of the place.

His phone rings again as he’s approaching the shop. “Killian Jones.”

“I can’t reach Gold,” Emma’s voice comes over the line, terse and worried. “I’m on my way. Wait for me.”

“I’m already here,” he says. “I’ll go see what’s what—”

“Hook, _wait_ for me.” The sound of an engine revving makes the phone’s speaker crackle. “Don’t go in there.”

It occurs to Killian that this might be exactly what Zelena has planned—to lure Emma here, by threatening others. He’s not sure what tactical sense that would make, but he’s equally sure that he doesn’t want to find out. “I’ll be careful,” he says, and ends the call.

The shop is as dark and unpleasant as ever, the silence only broken by a ticking clock somewhere to his right. Killian turns towards the counter at the end—and draws up short.

Standing there, stock-still and shimmering faintly in the gloom, is Rumplestiltskin. He’s positioned as if he’d just been coming out from the back when the squid ink hit him, in profile from where Killian is standing. Only his eyes are moving, finding Killian’s.

Killian puts his phone down somewhere blindly, hand reaching for his sword as he advances through the shop. There’s no sign of anyone else, but that’s the thing about witches and their ilk: there’s never any sign of them until they’re standing right in front of you, smoking and smug.

“Where is she?” Killian hisses as he comes up to Rumplestiltskin.

But the man can’t speak. His eyes are fixed on Killian, an almost desperate look in them. The muscles in his throat strain a little, his lips move the tiniest amount, but no sound comes out.

His eyes flick down. Killian follows his gaze and sees a familiar cuff wrapped around Rumplestiltskin’s wrist, the same cuff that he once used to render Regina powerless.

He looks back up. His eyes meet Rumplestiltskin’s again, and he nods, to show that he understands. Rumplestiltskin blinks once. Then his eyes slide down again, to his wrist... and then, with intent, to Killian’s sword.

The message is clear. _Cut it off._

For a moment, Killian just stares at him. Of all the things to ask, of all the _people_ to ask...

He supposes there’s a poetic justice in it. A hand for a hand. But even as he slides his sword from its scabbard, his mind is racing for an alternative. He knows that wherever Zelena went, she could be back any second. He knows that whatever she has in store, it can’t be good. And the crocodile deserves it, deserves much worse than this, but even so.

He knows what it is to lose a hand. And he knows, oh, he knows, what it must cost Rumplestiltskin to ask this of him.

He’s dreamed of moments like this. He’s dreamed of vengeance in more ways that he can count. But now that it’s come to it, he doesn’t want to do it. His sword seems to weigh a ton. There must be another way.

There’s panic in Rumplestiltkin’s eyes, but beneath it, Killian can see that familiar deadly intent.

And it occurs to him that once the Dark One can access his magic again, he’ll probably be able to reattach his hand with barely any effort.

Killian raises his sword.

“Ah, ah,” a falsely sweet voice says from his right, and the sword flies from Killian’s hand as Zelena appears behind the counter, a wicked, black-engraved blade in one hand and a glowing red heart in the other. Standing at Zelena’s side, her whole body rigid with tension, is Belle. Her eyes are wide and fearful, skipping from Rumplestiltskin to Killian, and Killian’s heart clenches at the sight. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him whose heart Zelena is holding.

From the agonised look on Rumplestiltskin’s face, he knows it, too. But this time, Killian can’t dredge up even a hint of satisfaction or triumph.

 Then he realises just what that wicked-looking blade is, and for the first time since Neverland, he feels true fear. Zelena with the Dark One’s dagger is a complication he didn’t foresee.

“No heroics, please,” Zelena goes on, almost conversationally. “I’d hate to have to hurt this young lady. She doesn’t deserve it, does she, Captain?”

Killian swallows. “What do you want?”

“It’s quite simple. You,” she indicates Rumple, “hand over your dagger, or I kill her.”

Killian frowns at the blade that Zelena is holding. Does she not realise that she’s already holding it in her hands?

“Ah, yes, this old thing,” Zelena says, noticing his look. “Belle, why don’t you tell the boys what we just found out?”

“It’s fake,” Belle gasps out. There are tears in her eyes. “Rumple—”

There’s something there, Killian thinks, beyond the immediate threat of Zelena. Belle looks upset, and scared... and betrayed.

“Why don’t you let the lady go, and we’ll discuss terms,” Killian says, as evenly as he can. “We can—”

Zelena rolls her eyes. “Always with the talking. How does Emma stand it?” She waves a hand. Killian opens his mouth, but no sound makes it out. He settles for glaring at her. He’s too far away to make a lunge for her, too far for his hook to be of any use.

She turns back to Rumplestiltskin. “Now. I’m going to unfreeze you, and you’re going to tell us how to get the real dagger. If you try anything, I kill the girl. Captain, one move from you, I kill the girl. Just nod if you understand. Or blink. Whatever.”

Killian nods. Beside him, Rumplestiltskin blinks, a murderous light in his eyes.

Zelena waves her hand. Apparently, it isn’t enough to enable Rumplestiltskin to move more than his head, though he immediately begins spitting threats and curses at her.

“The dagger,” she says, her fist closing around Belle’s heart. Belle gasps in obvious pain. Killian’s blood is roaring in his ears. His entire body is coiled like a spring. He can’t let her do it. He can’t stand by and watch Belle die. He won’t.

He looks over at Rumplestiltskin. His voice still won’t obey him, but he glares at the man, trying to will him to _do_ something. He’s supposed to be good at loopholes, at weaselling his way out of tricky situations.

“It’s in the safe,” Rumplestiltskin says, his voice hoarse. “Belle, I’m sor—“

“Good.” Zelena nudges Belle forward. “Go get it for me.”

Rumplestiltskin talks Belle through the process of opening the safe, and there are tears in his eyes now, even while he glares bloody murder at Zelena.

“Belle, I’m so sorry—”

Belle takes the dagger from the safe, casting another terrified, betrayed look at Rumplestiltskin. Killian’s mind is racing, trying to find a way out of this one. But he can’t hope to reach Zelena before she realises what he’s up to, and if he can’t do that, Belle will die if he tries anything at all.

Belle hands the dagger to Zelena, who takes it with a manically triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Thank you. Now—”

“Hey!”

The voice breaks the tense quiet of the shop, loud and clear and angry. A flood of relief and renewed terror rushes through Killian at the sound.

Emma.

She took the back way in, it seems, and steps through into the shop with her gun raised and tracking towards Zelena. Zelena grips the dagger. Rumplestiltskin waves a hand, knocking Emma sideways.

Killian is already moving. He saw the witch’s expression flicker, her attention elsewhere for just a moment. And a moment is all he needs.

He leaps forward and vaults over the counter, scattering the papers there. One of his shins bangs painfully against the till. His momentum sends him flying right into Zelena, knocking her sideways and down. His hook finds the hand holding Belle’s heart. He digs the tip into her skin, just below the knuckles.

Zelena screams, and lets go. Something is still crashing down where Emma hit the wall, and glass is breaking all around Killian, trinkets that his wild lunge sent flying.

“Belle!” Rumplestiltskin cries, his voice desperate.

Then green smoke obscures Killian’s vision, and Zelena is gone. Killian hastily pulls his arm back away from where he hopes Belle’s heart is, terrified of harming it and her with his hook. He can see it as he smoke clears, a red glow just beside him. Rolling over clumsily, he grabs it with shaking fingers, and tries to get his legs under him. There’s no sign of Zelena—nor, he realises as he looks around, of Rumplestiltskin.

“Hook!”

Emma is still on the ground, amidst a pile of debris that used to be two picture frames and an ornate lamp, but she’s moving, struggling to get up. Her eyes are on Killian. They both stagger to their feet, and Killian wants to hurry over to her, steady her, make sure she’s all right.

He presses his lips together, and curbs the impulse. She’s bracing herself against the wall, eyes sweeping over him, her arm twitching as if about to reach out. Even as his eyes find hers, she pushes away from the wall, standing up straight. She doesn’t seem to be hurt. He nods at her, to let her know that he’s all right.

Emma nods back, her gaze lingering for an instant before they both turn to Belle, who is standing between them. She’s leaning on the counter, looking shell-shocked.

“Belle,” Emma says, her tone gentle, though anger lurks beneath. “Are you okay?”

Belle begins to nod, then shakes her head. “I—he—what’s going _on_?”

“I don’t know.” Emma looks past her at Killian, a hard look. “I take it that was the Wicked Witch?”

“Aye, the very same,” he confirms. Belle has turned to look at him, too, confused and angry. He can’t blame her. The echo of their past encounters seems to hang between them, distrust and fear and anger swirling in Belle’s blue eyes. Wordless, he holds out her heart, like a peace offering. She stares at it.

“That’s—you got it.”

“Aye.”

She makes as if to take it from him, then recoils. “I don’t—”

“It’s all right. Take it.” He doesn’t want to hold onto it. Now that the immediate danger is over, the slow, gentle pulsing feels wrong in his hand.  This is what Rumplestiltskin felt just before he crushed Milah’s heart. This, this weird, warm, gentle thing, is what he destroyed.

And now Killian is holding Belle’s heart in his hand, and he knows that there’s a dark part of him somewhere that wants to destroy it. It doesn’t matter that he won’t do it; he should not have it. He isn’t safe. He’s the last person she should trust with this.

She swallows, and takes it from him, cradling it in her hand.

“Okay, first things first,” Emma says, looking a little queasy as she glances at Belle’s heart, “ _that_. I’ll call Regina, and—“

“No,” Belle cuts her off. “Please. No. You can put it back, can’t you? Neal—I heard you’ve been learning magic.”

Emma stares at her. Killian knows that look. It’s the same look she gets whenever she thinks that a conversation with him might be heading into the territory of _feelings_. “Uh, I don’t think... I mean look, Regina is the expert.”

“Regina.” Belle gives a humourless laugh. “Regina is the woman who locked me up for twenty-eight years. No thanks. Please, Emma.”

Emma swallows, her eyes sliding over to Killian. He’s talking before he can think better of it, before he remembers that he should be keeping his distance from her now. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s right.”

After another moment, still looking hesitant, Emma takes the heart from Belle, holding it as though the slightest pressure might shatter it. “Right. Okay.” She pauses. “Are you sure—?”

“Swan, you’re the Savior and the product of True Love,” Killian says. Distance be damned. This needs to be done. This is one thing Zelena has messed up that they can fix. “If anyone was born to restore hearts to people, it’s you. If your boy were here, he’d tell you the same thing. You can do this.”

Emma holds his gaze for a moment, and he thinks can see a lifetime of insecurity in those eyes. Then she blinks, and a steely determination banishes the demons as she nods. “Right.”

She moves quickly, her movements sure and steady as she presses Belle’s heart against her chest, and then into it. Belle gasps. Emma pulls back her hand as if burned, concern all over her face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Belle manages a watery smile, although tears are pooling in her eyes now that she can feel the full impact of everything that just happened. “Thank you.”

 “Sure,” Emma says, all business now, clearly relieved at what she’s just done and eager not to dwell on it. “No problem.”

“And you, too,” Belle adds, a little grudgingly, to Killian. She still looks shaken. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head against the discomfort that rises up. “Don’t mention it.”

“Why were you here?” Belle asks. “What happened?”

“Good question,” Emma says, rounding on Killian, the anger from before blazing in her eyes now. “I told you to wait for me.”

Her tone gets his hackles up. “This was not my fault. The cro—Rumplestiltskin was already immobilised by the time I got here.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Emma snaps. “I said you should’ve waited. I specifically _told_ you to wait for me.”

His anger is a swift, sure thing, rising inside him like the tide. She does not get to lecture him on rushing headlong into danger when that’s exactly what she just did—and _she’s_ the one who got knocked into the wall, not him. “Last I checked, I was neither a deputy, nor your subject, _princess_.”

She looks livid, eyes flashing at him. “It’s not about that, and you know it.”

“Then what is it about?” he demands.

“It’s about you not charging into stuff like this without back-up!”

That gives him pause. Back-up. He _never_ has back-up. The idea of it is so foreign that it takes him a moment to understand what she means.

“You mean like you just did?” he asks, trying to rally, but realising as he says it that the fire has rather gone out of his voice.

“No, because _I_ knew _you_ were in here,” Emma says impatiently.

She’s so matter-of-fact about it that the wind goes out of Killian’s sails entirely. He’s been hoping that she’d come to trust him a little, and here she is, talking as if it’s the most normal, expected thing in the world that they would back each other up.

Which it _is_. He’s just so used to it already that he didn’t even notice.

When he doesn’t reply, it’s Belle who speaks. “If you two are done shouting,” she says, sounding slightly exasperated, “we should probably get out of here.”

Emma takes a deep breath. “Right. You’re right. Come on. We’ll go back to the loft, meet up with the others. Zelena’s up to something, and I want to know what it is.”

*  *  *

Emma’s heart is still pounding as they all convene in her parents’ loft. Snow shows up with Ruby in tow, who immediately hurries to Belle’s side. Everyone gathers around the table, except for Regina, who leans elegantly against the counter, and Hook, who stands near the door, feet apart and hand on his sword. Something is different about him; he seems darker, more intense, if that’s even possible. It’s a challenge to stop herself from looking over at him, and one she’s already failed twice.

“Zelena,” Regina says, her dark eyes flashing. “I thought her name was Ephalba.”

“Elphaba,” Belle corrects. “And her name was never mentioned in the original book.”

“Whatever. It’s inconsistent.” Regina says the word like an insult.

“Yeah, well, in the book, _his_ name,” Emma gestures at Hook, “is James. How’s that for consistent?”

“ _James_?” Hook echoes, looking offended.

“You’ve read the book?” Ruby asks, eyes sparkling with interest as she looks at Emma. “And you remember Captain Hook’s first name?”

“It’s not my bloody first name,” Hook says, glaring at her.

“I thought _your_ name was James,” Belle says, looking at David.

“No, that was my brother,” David says with a sigh. “I just took his place when he died. Long story.”

Emma reminds herself that this is not the time to dwell on, much less share, the knowledge that one thing the book got right was the colour of Hook’s eyes. Even though that would probably lift his drawn-together brows a little, maybe even chase away that lingering darkness.

_Not_ the time.

She drags a hand across her temple. “Is any of this really important right now? Zelena’s got the Dark One’s dagger.”

“Yeah, and by the way, how did that happen?” Regina demands, and looks over at Hook again. “I thought that was supposed to be impossible.”

“It certainly isn’t easy, in my experience,” Hook says, shrugging. “Though I, of course, never had the benefit of magic.”

Regina scoffs. “Please. As if some third-rate witch from Oz is a match for Rumple.”

“He gave me the dagger,” Belle says quietly. Her eyes are still red, but she looks remarkably composed, given the circumstances. “Or I thought he did. When Zelena came after me, I tried to summon him with it, to help me. It didn’t work. The dagger I had was a fake. So she took my heart, and used that to blackmail him into giving up the real one.”

“Why would he give you a fake dagger?” Regina asks, mystified.

Emma can tell immediately that this is something of a sore subject; Belle looks more upset than ever, evidently casting about for words. Regina does not appear to notice.

“Does that really matter?” Ruby asks. She has one arm around Belle, and seems to have picked up on her mood, too. “Zelena got the real one. That’s a problem.”

“A big problem.” Regina looks annoyed. “Sounds like he out-manipulated himself. Damn it.”

“Did she say anything to either of you?” Emma asks, ignoring Regina and looking at Belle and Hook. “About what she’s planning?”

“Nothing,” Belle says.

“Only that she needed the squid ink for it,” Hook says, but something about the way he says it has Emma narrowing her eyes at him. He notices, of course. “And, as I said, she let slip that she can’t attack you directly, Swan.”

“What?” Snow asks. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It was not something she meant to divulge. When I tried to find out more, she realised what I was doing, and left.”

“Why didn’t she attack you?” David asks. It isn’t quite an accusation, but Emma sends him a warning look anyway.

“She didn’t need to,” Hook says. He hesitates, and Emma can see him struggle with himself, apparently weighing his words. “I believe that she hopes to win me over to her side.”

“She better not,” Regina says at once.

“Believe me when I say, your Majesty, that I’ve no wish to join someone with a penchant for simian sidekicks,” Hook says with a sarcastic little bow. “I’m not giving up my hook and my devilish good looks in favour of a tail and a pair of wings.”

“Might be an improvement,” Regina retorts.

Emma rolls her eyes. She does not need this right now. “No, it wouldn’t be. Can we please get back on track here? How do we find this witch?”

“Find her?” David asks. “You want to _find_ her?”

“We know who she is now,” Emma says. “And we know she can’t hurt me. So I need to find her, and—”

“That was before she got the Dark One’s dagger,” Regina cuts her off. “I’m pretty sure the Dark One can hurt you just fine.”

“I doubt it,” Hook speaks up. He looks briefly uncomfortable, and again, Emma gets the sense that he’s weighing his words carefully. “She made no move to attack Emma back at the shop, even after she’d attained the dagger. It’s entirely possible that the crocodile can’t hurt her, at least not in any way that matters. Cora couldn’t take her heart when she tried.”

Emma nods absently. The idea of being immune to harm from dark magic is crazy, of course. It’s far too close to “Chosen One” territory for comfort. But she can’t deny that she somehow resisted Cora, a witch so powerful that even Regina feared her. And that was before she’d had any kind of magical training.

“So it makes sense for her to go to ground,” Snow says thoughtfully. “And work on her plan. We’ve got to at least find Gold, get him away from her.”

“Right,” Emma says, glancing at the clock. She’s itching to get out there, to find this witch and make the town safe again, but she knows better. This isn’t something she can solve in one evening, and tangling with flying monkeys in the dark just sounds like a bad idea all over. “Regina, we should reinforce the wards around the loft and Granny’s, just in case. Belle, I don’t think you should go back to the shop. Sorry.”

“You can stay at Granny’s,” Ruby says at once. “Right now, Neal’s the only one staying there, so we’ve got plenty of room. It’ll be just like old times.”

Belle smiles for the first time as she looks at Ruby. “Thank you.” She turns back to Emma. “I’ll tell Neal what happened to—to his father. He needs to know.”

Emma has, until now, completely forgotten about Neal. She scrambles to look like this was something she meant to address, fighting back a stab of guilt. “That’d be great. Thanks.” She fights a brief battle, pride versus conscience. “And, uh, Hook?”

He looks up at once. “Yes?”

“I think you should take a room at Granny’s, too. To be safe.”

She fully expects him to make some insufferable quip about being concerned for his safety, or some kind of smirking innuendo, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he glances at Belle, shifts uncomfortably on his feet, and says, “You warded my ship, Swan. I’ll be fine.”

It’s so unexpected that for a moment, Emma can’t think of a reply. With an effort, she rallies. “Zelena literally just showed up on your front porch. Remember? The ship might be safe, but unless you’re planning on staying on it...”

“Granny’s is safer,” Belle says.

Beside her, Ruby looks relieved. “Yeah, you’re welcome to stay, Killian. Actually, with the Wicked Witch on the loose, I think Granny might even give you a discount if you promise to help keep an eye out for flying monkeys.”

Hook gives in, smiling at Ruby and sketching a bow that looks rather more sincere than the previous one. “Then I shall cede to the majority. Thank you.”

Emma tells herself that the stab in her stomach is fear or worry at the thought of flying monkeys, nothing to do with the way Hook is smiling at Ruby and avoiding Emma’s eye.

“Right,” she says, with a cheerfulness she doesn’t feel. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning in—” She breaks off. “Uh...”

Snow steps in. “Do you think Granny would mind opening early for us?” she asks Ruby. “That might rouse the least suspicion. The last thing we need is for everyone else to catch wind of all of this and start asking questions.”

“And calling for the mayor’s head,” Regina mutters. “ _Again_.”

Ruby nods, her smile wide and guileless. “Sure.  I’ll let her know.”

“I’ll go with you,” Regina says. “I’ll reinforce the wards there and collect Henry. Emma, you can handle the loft, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma says automatically. “I can handle it.”

Hook clears his throat. “Well, it seems we have a plan,” he says. “Shall we go then, ladies?”

They say their goodbyes and file out the door, Hook in the lead. He waits for them all in the hallway, while Regina gives Emma some last-minute instructions and Snow hugs Ruby and Belle goodbye. As the women join him, he nods back at Emma and her parents, his “good night” coming out very formal. Before Emma can so much as catch his eye, he’s turning to swagger down the stairs after Ruby. She closes the door, lingering for long enough to hear Ruby say something that prompts Hook to chuckle, deep and comfortable.

“Huh,” David says somewhere behind her. “Y’know, he wasn’t nearly as annoying today. Maybe he really is changing.”

“Yeah,” Emma says softly, as the snick of the door lock shuts out the sound of the voices outside. Her insides give another stab, and she has to swallow. “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long - I really, REALLY appreciate all the support and enthusiasm for this story and I will do my utmost to have the next chapter up more quickly! If you're still reading, THANK YOU and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	12. Chapter 12

Emma doesn’t sleep well that night. When she wakes the following morning, it feels like no time at all has passed. She can hear the wind outside, rattling at the windows. A sleepy, squinting glance past the curtains tells her that the snow has finally arrived, though it’s a sleety, wet mess as it’s whipped past by the wind. Emma gives it a half-hearted glower and pulls the covers up to her chin. All she wants is to stay in bed and sleep for another three hours at least.

Unfortunately, she has a meeting to get to.

When she and her parents get to Granny’s, Regina is already there, looking far more elegant and put-together than anyone has a right to this early in the morning. Ruby is busy setting tables and helping Granny behind the counter, and Belle arrives just as David is helping Snow out of her coat. Emma catches her eye, and offers her a smile. She still doesn’t know what exactly happened with the dagger and Gold, but she can spot the signs of betrayal, and she knows how it feels. Belle smiles back, and makes to join her.

Strolling in behind Belle, looking a little sleepy, is Neal.

“I told him about the meeting,” Belle says to Emma. “That’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” If it had occurred to her, Emma would have texted Neal about it yesterday. But Snow and David had wanted a play-by-play account of her encounter in Gold’s shop, and then she’d called Henry to say goodnight and reassure herself that he was okay, and it had just slipped her mind.

Neal takes up position on Belle’s other side, leaning back against the counter. He has a smile for Emma, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks tense, almost like he used to look before a job. Emma can’t blame him. If her father were in the clutches of the Wicked Witch...

“We’re gonna find him,” she says. “And Zelena. We’ll get him away from her.”

Neal gives a jerky nod. “Yeah. I know. Belle said she’s the Wicked Witch?”

“Yeah.” Emma gives him the wry smile that they usually exchange when the whole “our parents are fairytale characters” thing comes up, but for once, he doesn’t return it.

“Guess that’s where the flying monkeys came from,” Neal mutters. “I didn’t know.”

“Neal knows her,” Belle says, with a sympathetic look at him. “We both do. She came into the library a lot.”

That explains Neal’s tense mood. “I take it she never mentioned the whole Wicked Witch thing,” Emma says.

“Not really, no.” Neal shakes his head. “Getting a little sick of women who aren’t who they say they are...”

Emma wants to make a quip about how at least he didn’t propose to this one, but she doesn’t think it would go over very well. Nor, for that matter, with Belle, whose own engagement is off to what could charitably be called a rocky start.

David comes up beside Emma. The smile on his face is friendly enough, and he seems to have decided to let old grievances lie for the sake of working together, but his stance and his closeness all but scream “protective dad”.

Emma has to bite back a grin. David is a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them.

“Hey. Are we ready?” he asks.

Emma glances around the room, as if she doesn’t already know that they’re missing someone. “Just waiting for Hook.”

As if in response, there’s a distant clatter of boots on stairs, and moments later, Hook strides into view. He’s foregone his long cloak, clad only in a black tunic and shirt, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he walks. He looks wide awake, but his shock of black hair is sticking up at odd angles as though he hasn’t had time to comb it yet, one rebellious strand falling into his face. It’s a far better look on him than it should be, adding to that sense of danger and adventure that always clings to him.

Emma reaches up brush back her own hair, which got tangled in her collar on the way over here and probably looks like a rat’s nest already, thanks to the wind and the melting snow. She has to suppress two stabs of annoyance: one at the weather, and one at herself for even caring about the weather and what it’s done to her hair.

It’s Hook. He’s already seen her looking far worse.

And it doesn’t matter, anyway.

“My apologies,” he says, looking around the room, his gaze catching on the clock on the wall. “It seems that the clock in my talking phone is a little tardy.”

Before she can even think about it, Emma holds out a hand. “Want me to get it up to date?”

He smiles, but it’s a weak imitation of how he usually looks at her when she’s being nice. “That’s all right, Swan, I’ll manage. We have more pressing matters to address, I believe.”

It’s not a rejection, exactly, but it hits her like one all the same. Especially when he moves away to lounge against one of the tables, as far away from Emma as he can get without leaving their group completely.

Maybe it’s her father, hovering at her side, Emma thinks. Or maybe the whole Wicked-Witch-and-Rumplestiltskin team-up thing has him more rattled than she thought.

“Right.” She swallows, and clears her throat. “So. We need a plan, and I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never dealt with a Wicked Witch before.”

Regina huffs out an annoyed breath. “What I’d like to know is, how did she even get here? I didn’t bring her over with the curse. She shouldn’t be here.”

“You didn’t bring Hook over, either,” Emma points out. “I broke the curse, so the whole realm-hopping thing is possible again, right?”

“Possible, sure,” Regina says. “But not easy. Unless,” she directs a glare at Hook, “you had an extra guest you didn’t tell us about?”

He glares right back. “Because Cora and that bloody giant were not delightful company enough for me? I assure you, yesterday was the first and only time Zelena has set foot aboard the _Jolly Roger_.”

“That you know of,” Regina says acidly, the reminder of Hook’s alliance with her mother doing nothing to improve her mood.

Hook, in turn, glares more darkly than ever, his voice turning dangerously flat. “No one stows away aboard my ship.”

“She’s a _witch_ , Hook. She managed it yesterday, didn’t she?”

Emma feels a strong urge to throttle them both. Debates are all very well, but this pointless bickering is rubbing her sleep-deprived nerves raw. “She’s a witch from _Oz_ ,” she says before Hook can voice the no-doubt withering retort she can see forming in his throat. “We weren’t in Oz. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Hook would’ve noticed a dozen flying monkeys swarming around his ship.”

“Well, she got here somehow,” Regina snaps, apparently not willing to let it go. “Into _my_ town. I want to know how.”

“Does it really matter right now?” Snow asks, looking just a little impatient. “She’s here, and she’s got Rumplestiltskin under her control. We need to find them.”

“Right,” Emma says, before Regina can respond, glad that her mother has gotten them back on track. “We need to find Gold. Any ideas where to start?”

“A locator spell?” David suggests. “Rumple gave me one—two, actually. I used it to track down Jefferson.”

“Jefferson!” Regina exclaims, her eyes widening in triumph, a small smile curving her lips.

Emma doesn’t share her reaction;  an unpleasant jolt has gone through her at the name. She knows, now, that the man wasn’t insane at all, that all of his talk of magic and dual lives was totally true. But even so, the memory of being trapped in that house, by an unpredictable madman who wanted her to do things she couldn’t, the overwhelming sense of wrongness...

“What’s Jefferson?” Hook asks, his eyes on Emma, all traces of anger gone now.

“Not what, who,” Regina corrects impatiently. “The Mad Hatter. He’s a realm-traveller. He might know something. He might even be how Zelena got here.”

“He’s a recluse,” David says. “I’ve barely seen him since Henry reunited him with Grace. And before you say it, the last I knew, Jefferson’s hat didn’t work anymore, remember? I tried using it to follow Emma and Snow.”

“And I have seen Grace,” Snow adds. “Getting his daughter back was all he ever wanted. He wouldn’t leave her again. Anyway, she talks about him all the time, I’d know if he’d gone on any kind of trip.”

“Grace’s dad?” Belle asks. “He’s definitely around. She comes to the library at least once a week, and he’s always there. I’ve never met him, but I see them walk past all the time.”

Regina waves all of those arguments away with an imperious wave of her hand. “Fine. He’s still the closest thing to a realm-travelling expert we’ve got. We should talk to him.”

“Someone should talk to him,” Snow agrees. “But not you. No offence, Regina, but you’re not exactly subtle.”

“Fine.” Regina looks at Emma. “Let the sheriff do it.”

Emma makes a face. She knows that Jefferson isn’t a bad guy, and Henry has been making friends with Grace, and really, there’s no reason she can’t go and talk to the man.

“What?” Regina demands, seeing the look on her face.

“We don’t exactly have the best history,” Emma says.

“He _did_ kidnap us,” Snow adds, by way of explanation. There’s a moment’s pause, in which Regina looks momentarily put out, Neal looks surprised, David looks angry, and Hook’s fingers tap a staccato rhythm on the pommel of his sword.

“But that was during the curse,” Snow goes on, after a glance at her husband. “He was desperate.”

“I could go,” Ruby suggests.

“No, you can’t,” Granny calls as she passes behind the counter.

“Granny, I’m a werewolf,” Ruby says with a roll of her eyes. “I can handle one weird loner.”

Granny comes to a stop and glares at her granddaughter. “Fine. But I’m going with you.”

“Because crossbows are so much more subtle than me,” Regina says, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Granny glares at her. “The crossbow’s an insurance policy. Don’t worry, I know a thing or two about talking to weird loners.”

Emma lets out a relieved breath. Granny and Ruby are the perfect mix of friendliness and self-defence; they’ll handle Jefferson. “Good,” she says before Regina can argue some more. “Okay. In the meantime, the rest of us should concentrate on tracking down Gold.”

“Which brings us back to tracking spells,” David says with a nod. “You know how to do that, Regina?”

Regina huffs out a laugh. “Sure. You got anything of Zelena’s lying around for us to use?”

“No, but we do have plenty of Rumple’s things,” Belle says.

Regina purses her lips, shaking her head slowly. “We can try it, but I’d be surprised if it worked. The only locator spell I know is the one I learned from Rumple. There’s no way he hasn’t taken measures to prevent it being used to find him.”

“I’ll look through some of Rumple’s books,” Belle says. “Maybe I can find something to help us track him down. Or a way to defeat Zelena, or a clue about what she’s up to. There must be _something_.”

“In the meantime, I guess we’re down to old-fashioned tracking,” Snow says. She looks quite cheerful about this. “I can do that.”

“You want to just go gallivanting through the woods hoping you’ll pick up a trail?” Regina asks, with her usual incredulous expression at Snow’s optimism.

Snow shrugs, not put out by Regina’s attitude. “If you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears.”

“I’ll go with you,” David says. “We should go in pairs.” He glances at Emma, then Hook. “Or groups.”

Emma looks at Hook, too. With David partnering Snow, Hook is the obvious choice for her—but the suggestion dies in her throat when he speaks.

“I’ll keep Belle company,” he says. Belle’s eyes snap to him, and he reaches up as if to scratch at his ear, though he abandons the motion halfway through and spreads his arms in a shrug instead. “I’m surprisingly good at research.”

“And I’m supposed to concentrate on research when I’m alone in a room with the man who tried to kill me?” Belle asks pointedly.

“Ah, yes. That.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, the smile on his face a little stiff. “I was rather... single-minded at the time. Misguided, one might say.”

“You _shot_ me.”

“Yes. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Belle looks at him for another moment, then shakes her head—in disbelief or denial, Emma can’t tell. But for all her blunt words, she doesn’t look to be afraid of Hook, or all that put out by the idea of being in the same room as him. Even so, Emma considers intervening, the jolt at the memory of being Jefferson’s captive fresh in her mind—but if she says anything, it might sound like she just doesn’t want Hook staying here with another woman.

Maybe that’s why he’s doing it. Maybe he’s angling for jealousy, or...

_No_. She nips that thought in the bud. She can accuse Hook of a lot of things, but playing teenage games isn’t one of them.

“How about I keep you both company,” Ruby suggests. She looks at Belle. “If he tries anything, I promise I’ll bite his head off.”

Hook grins at her. She raises her eyebrows, as if to ask what’s funny. His eyes widen just a little, and the grin vanishes.

Belle considers this, then arches her eyebrows at Hook. “Can you even read?”

“Of course I can bloody read.” He looks insulted at the implication that he might be illiterate. “Do you think I spent two hundred years sitting on a ship twiddling my one remaining thumb? Even my crew could read by the end of it all.”

Belle sighs. “Fine.”

“Great,” Ruby says, smiling at them both, then at Emma. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Good,” Emma says mechanically, past the weird lump in her throat that feels an awful lot like disappointment. “Good. Okay.” She looks around, realising as she does that her options are now down to Neal and Regina. She’s not sure which she dreads more.

Regina, she decides. Neal is usually good company, when he isn’t trying to tell her how evil magic is, or badgering her about going on a date with him. Regina, on the other hand, is bound to be snider than ever, with the threat of Rumple and Zelena pressing on her patience.

“I want to go do some digging, too,” Neal says, before Emma can speak. “At my dad’s place, and...” He waves a vague hand. “I’ll let you know if I find anything, okay?”

Emma narrows her eyes at him. “Like David said, none of us should go out there alone.”

“If Zelena wanted to hurt me, she could have done that a million times by now,” Neal says reasonably. “I’ll be fine. But, uh, thanks for the concern.” He flashes her a smile. Across the room, Hook seems to be intently interested in the coffee machine behind the counter.

“Sure,” Emma says, her heart sinking a little further. She tries to tell herself that it’s because they’ve all got work to do, but she can’t help feeling like none of them want to be around her. For a moment, she’s a kid again: the weird kid, the outsider, the one no one wanted to be friends with.

She chances another glance at Hook. He still isn’t looking at her. She wonders if he meant what he said yesterday, that he’s sick of being bossed around by her.

She briefly debates joining her parents on their hunting trip, but she knows that she’ll be wasted there, and she doesn’t think she can handle it if they turn her down, too. Instead, she catches Regina’s eye. “I’ll go with you. Maybe we can track down Gold together. And I want to try that poofing spell again.”

Regina makes a face. “You mean translocation magic.”

Emma, her inner child still close to the surface, has to resist an urge to stick her tongue out. Yeah, this is not going to be the best day she’s ever had. “ _You_ call it poofing.”

Hook makes a strangled sort of noise that quickly turns into a cough, his eyes still on the coffee machine as he covers his mouth with his hand. Emma could swear that she can see the corner of his eye crinkle, just a little.

“Whatever,” Regina says, sweeping her hair back haughtily. “What about Henry?”

“He can stay here,” Ruby suggests. “That’s probably the safest anyway. And he can help us. He’s a smart kid.”

Regina and Emma exchange a look, and Emma knows that they’re both thinking the same thing. The best way to ensure that Henry won’t sneak off and try his own “Operation Witch Hunt” or something equally reckless is to sign him up from the beginning. Sign him up, and give him a job that will keep him somewhere safe.

And, come to think of it, Granny and Hook are probably the two people in this town that even Henry can’t sneak past.

“Sounds good to me,” Emma says.

“That would be great,” Regina agrees. “Just make sure he doesn’t eat _all_ the cupcakes.”

“Ration the cupcakes,” Ruby says. “Got it.”

“Okay,” Emma says, sweeping her gaze around the room. Neal is looking uncomfortable—probably because of the magic thing, Emma realises belatedly. Oh, well. The Wicked Witch and the Dark One are on the loose. Surely, in the hierarchy of magic users to worry about, Emma currently ranks somewhere near the bottom.

Hook looks up when her eyes fall on him, like he can sense it somehow. For a moment, she thinks he might smile, or say something. But then he takes a deep breath, and looks away, and makes a show of adjusting his sword belt around his hips. He shifts on his feet, squaring his shoulders as if for battle.

“Good luck,” Emma says, trying to inject some extra confidence into her tone, just in case he really is rattled. “Let’s meet back here this evening?”

“Sounds great,” David says. He looks happy with the arrangements, at least, his eyes bright and his smile wide. “Let’s go find that witch.”

 

*  *  *

 

Killian follows Belle out of the diner, the miserable, freezing sleet outside the perfect match for his mood. Somewhere in his mind, a long litany of curses is unrolling, all of them directed at Zelena. They can’t quite drown out the fear and regret and anger that roil inside him like a storm, leaving him adrift, no rudder and no direction, dead in the water.

Part of him keeps insisting that there’s no harm in talking to Emma. But he knows himself well enough to know that he can’t hope to hide his interest if he so much as looks at her. He’s not a man to do things by halves.

Besides which, he has nothing to offer her now. Nothing but harm, that is. He feels wrong, unclean, like there’s something foreign lurking under his skin. It doesn’t matter how much he tells himself that it’s a curse, that it’s Zelena’s doing. He’s a part of it now, or rather, it’s a part of him. Until he can rid himself of it, he needs to stay away from Emma, for the sake of her safety and his sanity.

At least he doesn’t need to worry about hurting her. She might feel the spark between them, but she’s been sensible enough not to jump in head—or rather, heart—first.

He tells himself he’s glad of it.

He _is_ glad of the ready excuse to avoid Emma. Helping Belle might even prove an opportunity to do some research of his own. He knows precious little about curses, but there must be a way to break this one.

So instead of traipsing around Storybrooke with Emma, he finds himself walking alongside Belle in a literally-icy silence, the sleet whipping around them and making conversation impossible. Belle does not speak to him once they reach Gold’s shop, either, aside from a few instructions to hold the ladder and take the books she hands down to him, and the occasional admonishment to be careful not to damage the covers. Killian does his best, though he can’t quite resist reminding her that working with a hook makes avoiding damage difficult.

She rolls her eyes at him.

He fully expects the atmosphere to be the most awkward he’s ever experienced as they trudge back to Granny’s, Belle leading the way and Killian laden down with book bags. But he hasn’t counted on Ruby and Henry. Ruby is her usual friendly self, and Henry is far too excited to be included in “Operation Witch Hunt” to care about or even notice any awkwardness between the adults.

“What are we looking for?” he asks Belle eagerly. “Are these spell books?”

“Not exactly,” Belle says. She points to a stack of loose pages and leather-bound journals. “Those are Rumple’s own notes and a few journals that he must have—” she swallows “—that must have come from other magic users.”

Killian, mindful of his company, manages not to sneer.

“And this,” Belle indicates the stack of books that Killian has arranged on the table, “is every book I could find with information about the Dark One, magic, and curses in general. We’re looking for anything that might help us find Rumple, or defeat Zelena. Or any hint of what she might be up to, but I doubt we’ll find that in any book.”

“You never know!” Henry’s eyes are sparkling as he seizes the first book from the pile and begins leafing through it. Killian feels a grin pull at his lips. Belle is smiling, and there’s a tiny breath of a moment where they look at each other and share a kind of happy pride at the boy’s enthusiasm for books. Belle looks away quickly, but a little of the tension in her shoulders seems to have lightened.

Killian’s heart pounds a little faster as he turns to the pile of loose pages, pieces of parchment, and ancient journals. The Dark One’s own notes. Only a little while ago, he might have killed to get his hands on this treasure trove. His goals are different now, but he can’t deny the eagerness with which he gets to work.

It’s occurred to him, over the course of a long night filled with fear and regret and very little sleep, that he needs more information. He doesn’t know a lot about curses, but he knows they can be broken. Seizing the first handful of pages at random, he begins to read. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll find some answers here.

“What’s this one?” Henry asks after a while, holding up a book with a gold-embossed, slightly dusty brown cover. Killian looks up. The title is written, not in English, but in a curling, flowing script.

“Genies: Common Habits and Pitfalls,” he translates. “Or customs, perhaps, rather than habits. It appears to be an etiquette guide for dealing with genies.”

Belle looks up sharply, her eyebrows raised. “You can read that?”

He can’t help it; he grins at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound impressed.”

“Surprised,” she corrects, but her mouth quirks into a reluctant smile regardless. “I guess I shouldn’t be. Agrabah is a major port city, isn’t it?”

“Wait, you learned that in Agrabah?” Henry asks, his eyes wide. When Killian nods, the boy smiles widely, looking delighted. “You’ve been there? Really? I wasn’t even sure it was real. What’s it like?”

Killian looks at the boy, and the words rise up inside him unbidden. The bustling cities where the air carries the scent of spices, the heat that makes the air shimmer like water, the glint and glitter of jewels and precious metals on the market stalls. He wants to tell the lad, just like he once told Milah, quite sure that he’ll see the same wonder and delight reflected in Henry’s eyes.

“Let’s save the stories for another time,” he says instead. “For now, we’d better get on with this, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Henry gives the book another glance, then puts it aside before giving Killian a hard look. “But I’m holding you to that.”

“By all means,” Killian says. He debated, over the course of last night’s torturous hours, whether he ought to stay away from Henry as well as Emma. But Zelena has already threatened the boy. The best thing Killian can do, for now, is to be there to protect him.

He really needs a better solution.

Turning back to the pile of papers and journals on the table before him, Killian keeps reading.

 

*  *  *

 

“You need to focus,” Regina snaps. Her voice breaks what little is left of Emma’s concentration, and the little flutter in Emma’s veins dies down completely, to be replaced by a surge of something much stronger and far less helpful.

“I’m trying,” she snaps back.

“No, you’re staring into space,” Regina corrects, truthfully.

The fact that she’s right also doesn’t help. “It’s not that easy—”

“Yes, it is.” Regina spreads her hands, looking accusing, as if Emma is being difficult on purpose. “You focus on the object, you call up your magic, and you envision—”

“I know how to do it,” Emma cuts her off.

Regina shrugs and nods. “So do it.”

Emma takes a deep breath and silently counts to ten. Since starting these lessons with Regina, she’s found out that Regina can be quite a good teacher when she wants to be—but when she’s impatient, all of that goes out of the window. And there are a _lot_ of things that test Regina’s patience. It’s rare to get five minutes without at least one making an appearance.

“I told you,” Emma says, more calmly than she feels. “I’m trying. Maybe if you stopped interrupting me, I’d get somewhere.”

Regina holds up both hands, and takes a demonstrative step back. “Fine.”

It doesn’t help. Emma does her best to do what Regina described, her understanding of magic now at the point where at least the instructions make sense. She knows how to do it. It’s the doing it that’s the problem.

She’s sorely tempted to declare it a lost cause—how useful is _poofing_ likely to be in a fight against the Wicked Witch, anyway? -- but unfortunately, she has nowhere else to go. Her parents can manage just fine without her, the dwarves don’t need her either, and doing paperwork at the station seems like a huge waste of time right now.

And she can’t check up on Henry or help Belle with research, because that means going where Hook is, and there’s no way she’s doing that. He clearly doesn’t want her company, so she won’t inflict it on him.

She just really, really wishes she knew why. Ever since she’s known him, it’s been sly glances and innuendo-laden comments and broad grins; the only time he’s avoided her was because of Neal, and even then, it was never like this.

And they sorted that out, didn’t they? She made herself clear, didn’t she?

“All right, this is ridiculous,” Regina says, and Emma realises that Regina has finished with the book she was leafing through and is leaning back against the wall of the vault, arms crossed. “I’m going to get the pirate.”

Emma stares in alarm. “What?!”

Regina pushes away from the wall, advancing on Emma. “Look, we have a crisis on our hands here, okay? I don’t know or care what you two are fighting about this time, but if you can’t get over it, you need to work it out. So I am going to get Captain Guyliner, and you can—”

“No!” Emma bursts out. The only possible way that this situation could be worse is if Killian Jones finds out that Emma is having trouble concentrating because of him. “It’s not about him, okay? I just have—there’s just a lot going on.”

“There’s always a lot going on,” Regina says impatiently. “I told you, you have to shut it out.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it’s not easy,” Regina bursts out. “Magic takes actual work, it’s not gonna just fall into your lap like everything else does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma demands, before she can remind herself that they have to work together and arguing with Regina really isn’t going to help. But it still stings. She still remembers Regina’s pleas in Neverland—all I have is Henry. And what came before: a list of people who care about Emma.

Her parents, who never got to see her grow up. Neal, who let her go to jail. Hook, who might be on her side now, but the journey there was anything but easy.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Regina’s tone implies that Emma wouldn’t understand, anyway. “But you might want to stop lying to yourself. Your relationship with Hook—”

“We don’t have a relationship,” Emma says flatly.

“Sure you don’t.”

Emma gathers her wits, and a little courage. “We don’t. And no offence, Regina, but it’d be none of your business even if we did.”

“It is when he’s spending more time with Henry than Henry’s own father,” Regina says. “Which I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, actually.”

“Neal’s been busy,” Emma says, realising as she says it just how lame that sounds. Even if it is true. “Anyway, Henry likes Hook. He wanted to go help out on the ship, it’s not because of me.”

Regina scoffs. “Right. Look, Emma, I agreed to share custody with you, but you can’t keep dragging men into Henry’s life. Neal’s already disappointing him, did you know that? Filling his head with fear about magic, too busy to spend time with him... he can’t just waltz into Henry’s life whenever he feels like it.”

Emma stares at her, a little taken aback by the sudden change in subject. “I’m not dragging anyone into Henry’s life!”

“Oh, please. You brought Neal here. You’re the reason why Hook’s still around. It always comes back to you. But Henry is still _my son_.”

Emma’s world narrows sharply as something hot and dark boils up inside of her. She hasn’t asked for any of this. She is not the lucky centre of a love triangle with two perfect suitors. Her life is not a fairytale, except insofar as it seems to involve endless battles against fairytale villains. She has not had anything handed to her on any kind of platter, except far more trouble than one person can reasonably be expected to handle.

Her voice, when she finds it, is louder than usual, and abrasive enough to hurt her throat. “Yeah? Well, you should be grateful to Neal. If he hadn’t knocked me up and let me go to jail, you wouldn’t even _have_ a son.”

It takes a moment, but then Regina frowns. “What?”

“Just another bit of luck that fell into my lap,” Emma grits out. Her anger is abating already, leaving a deep discomfort behind. She didn’t mean to say it. She shouldn’t have said it. The last thing she needed was for Regina to have more anti-Neal ammunition.

 Regina is silent for a while. “Well,” she says, her tone dry and almost harsh. “Guess that explains a few things.”

“Henry doesn’t know,” Emma says quickly. “And I think it’s best if he doesn’t. I don’t think he’d understand.”

Regina gives a sharp little nod. “Right. Of course.” She lapses back into silence for a moment, flicking through the book she’s holding. Then: “Okay, let’s try this. Instead of trying to ignore whatever’s bothering you, just try to... focus on yourself. On how you’re feeling.”

She looks a little uncomfortable, like the words don’t quite fit right, like they feel strange in her mouth. But she forges ahead. “Just acknowledge it. To yourself,” she adds quickly, as if worried Emma might start spewing feelings at her any second. “Magic is emotion, but it doesn’t work if you suppress it. So you just kind of run through everything you’re feeling, acknowledge it, and move on, until it’s out of the way. Don’t try to understand it, that doesn’t matter. Just acknowledge it.”

Emma starts demanding why Regina didn’t tell her this before, but then she sees the look on the other woman’s face, and she knows the answer. This is something Regina does. And while Emma doesn’t like admitting her feelings, Regina doesn’t even like admitting to having any.

“Okay,” Emma says. “Fine. I’ll try.”

Regina nods again and leaves her to it, poring over ancient books and journals whose bindings are falling apart, rooting through dusty drawers and boxes, and grimacing at the labels of various bottles and jars. Emma sits and stares at the vase she’s supposed to be moving, and tries to concentrate. She’s not even sure that she fully understands what Regina means, but she’s not about to ask.

Furrowing her brow, she tries to decide how she’s feeling. Frustrated and annoyed, for one thing, but that goes without saying. There’s no word that comes to mind for the roiling, confused mess that lurks behind her frustration.

Acknowledge it, Regina said. Another hard lump of frustration wells up in her throat. What, is she supposed to wave at it all? Say hello? She doesn’t even know what she’s acknowledging.

She knows she’s going to need help with this, and she knows she won’t get it from Regina. Snow seems like a better bet, not to mention infinitely more comfortable when it comes to talking about anything to do with emotions. Or maybe Hook—

Emma grits her teeth. Regina is right about one thing, much as it pains her to admit it. She needs to quit worrying about Hook. He’s getting far too good at sneaking into her thoughts. And he’s probably completely oblivious to it, too. He’s hanging out with Belle and Ruby doing research and enjoying some of Granny’s excellent pastries while Emma is sitting here unable to concentrate because she keeps thinking about him.

And it’s getting worse, because she’s at the point where the fact that he _didn’t_ make a flirty comment is weighing on her mind.

It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. And annoying. And not going to stop her from doing this, damn it.

Emma glares at the vase. It’s an old, dusty thing made of tarnished silver metal, and it has an ornate handle on one side. From the right angle, the curve of the handle is almost the same as that of Killian’s hook. The embossed floral pattern around the rim reminds her of him, too, with his flashy rings and dramatic coat and gothic steampunk aesthetic or whatever the hell he’s going for.

Emma glares, and fumes, and glares some more, and wills the stupid thing to vanish.

There’s no smoke, not even a light mist. There’s just a soft whooshing noise, and the vase is gone. It reappears in the air about a foot away from the table, and falls to the ground with a clatter.

It takes Emma a moment to realise that something is missing. The handle is still exactly where it was. It seems to hang in midair for a moment, then drops onto the table, the curved metal catching the light.

“Close enough,” Emma mutters.

“Finally,” Regina comments, looking up from the book she’s leafing through. She looks down at the vase, arching an eyebrow as she sees that Emma missed the shelf by about a foot. “Well, you’ll need some practice, but it’s a start.”

“Yeah.” Emma has a feeling that this was not the way it’s supposed to work. Her emotions are still a tangle of frustration. She’s pretty sure that this isn’t what Regina meant by working through what she feels and letting it go.

But at least it worked. Kind of.

“Does, uh, does that happen a lot?” Emma asks, pointing at the handle.

Regina’s eyes widen. “No. Did you—did you just do that while moving it?!”

It isn’t often that Regina actually looks impressed, but she’s doing it now. Emma shrugs. “Uhm. Yeah.”

Regina makes a visible effort to collect herself. “I don’t know how you even did that. Breaking something apart like that takes a lot more effort than just moving it. It’s like... taking a step but only moving half your body.” She shakes her head, a sardonic look on her face. “I swear you’re like a toddler behind the wheel of a bulldozer.”

Emma glowers at her. “Thanks.”

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Regina blows out a breath. “No wonder you’re having trouble if that’s the kind of effort you’re putting in. It’s like you’re trying to move every molecule individually. Just... tone it down, okay? I think it’s safe to say that it shouldn’t take _you_ a whole lot of effort to do this.”

“It didn’t work at all before,” Emma points out.

“It will,” Regina assures her. “But it should feel like... you know, if you try to move something by picking it up, you move it as a unit, right? Not every bit by itself. When you take a step, you move your whole body. That’s what you’re doing, only with magic.”

Emma knows enough about magic by now that this, at least, makes sense. In theory. When it comes to practice...

She really needs to figure out this emotions thing. She’s beginning to think that her efforts in magic, so far, have been the equivalent of hitting the gas full-throttle and trusting her reflexes.

She doesn’t try to move any more objects. There’s something vaguely disturbing about the severed handle of the vase. It’s off-putting enough that Emma spends the rest of the day surreptitiously reading up on meditation in one of the books that Regina gave her, and trying to calm her thoughts.

It isn’t what she considers an unqualified success, but at least she doesn’t break anything else.

 

*  *  *

 

Rumplestiltskin’s notes are erratic and full of frustrating gaps that seem to assume a knowledge of some magical rule or other, which Killian lacks. The only one that isn’t a mystery is the one that seems to have caused one of the crocodile’s sleeping curse experiments to fail; an impatient slash through the name and a note branding it as an outlier tell a story of true love.

True love’s kiss is the only way Killian knows of breaking a curse. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure that it isn’t an option in this case.

Rumplestiltskin seems to have been intrigued by the concept, at least. Killian finds a journal with pages dedicated to the magic of true love, examples and detailed analyses and theories scrawled the yellowing parchment. When it comes to the actual mechanics, however, the crocodile was frustratingly uninterested.

It appears that it doesn’t have to be a kiss, although Rumplestiltskin seems convinced that the symbolism has its own power. Killian turns a few pages, glancing at them impatiently. True love, however it might be expressed, isn’t going to help him out of this predicament. He’s under no illusions that Emma feels anything for him except perhaps some attraction, and the basic care and concern she has for everyone.

Just as well, really, as it turns out. If she cared any more for him, she’d get hurt now. That’s the last thing he wants.

His eyes catch on a phrase on the next page: _corrupted love_. It appears again a few pages later, in more detail this time. More experiments and theories, never explicitly described. These are notes that Rumplestiltskin wrote for himself, not intended to be shared with or understood by a layperson.

But Killian manages to piece together the theory: corrupting someone’s love might have a kind of power, too. “Must be a way,” Rumplestiltskin writes. “Corrupted love -> true opposite of TL -> reverse effect? curse-carrying? -> a void, might even destroy magic? or steal it?”

Killian stares at the page as a dawning suspicion makes his blood run cold. He flips through the journal, intent now. There are more notes, complicated and abbreviated to the point of illegibility. There are notations of what seem to be trials or experiments as Rumplestiltskin tested his theories. The notes are full of disappointments and impatient crossings-out, as the subjects of his trials refuse to co-operate. Incorruptible. Incorruptible. Incorruptible.

Oh, but not him. Not Killian Jones.

He’s done exactly what these faceless, annotated people on the page refused to do. He was desperate, thoughtless, selfish. And Zelena did what Rumplestiltskin failed to do—corrupted his feelings for Emma into a weapon.

The feeling of being unclean sweeps over him again. He’s contaminated. _Corrupted._

The worst part is that he’s not entirely sure that it’s new. The curse is, but maybe he’s always been like this, deep down. Oh, he’s helped Emma out a time or two, but what _good_ has he actually done? Has he ever brought anything good, anything wholesome, into her life?

He’s a pirate. An agent of wrath and ruin. Even his love is something mean and selfish and corruptible.

He grits his teeth. He’s going to set this right, or die trying.

He keeps looking, even though his insides seem to be made of knives, twisting and tearing with every breath. He finds that Rumplestiltskin succeeded in the end, too; the details elude him, but the crocodile’s gloating is evident even in the flourish of his handwriting as he recounts that a man named Ivan lost his magic to his wife’s kiss after Rumplestiltskin managed to place a curse on her lips. Killian scans the pages desperately, looking for a potential flaw, another experiment perhaps, where the curse was broken. All he finds is an off-hand reference to Ivan’s magic, now bound to the land where he lived, marked by Rumplestiltskin in case he ever needs additional power.

“Killian?”

Killian looks up to find Ruby looking at him, concern on her face.

“Did you find something?” she asks.

“Ah,” he says. “No, nothing of use.” His face must be betraying something of the way his entire torso has filled with ice, so he manages a smile and indicates the journal he’s reading. “I’m afraid it doesn’t make for very pleasant reading.”

Belle looks over at him, her eyebrows raised. “Must be bad, if it bothers _you_.”

“It appears there’s a brand of unpleasantness I’m not yet accustomed to,” he says, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “Live and learn, eh?”

She scoffs out a humourless laugh, and turns back to her book.

Killian wants to scream, or cry, or maybe just ask Regina to tear his heart out and see if that makes a difference. Instead, he turns his attention back to scouring the journal for anything at all that might help him salvage this hell of a situation. Self-recrimination is going to have to wait for later. He can’t afford it right now. His feelings don’t matter right now. He needs to fix this.

He pulls up one of the blank notepads that Belle has laid out for them to use, takes one of the strange pens, and begins to write out some notes.

 

*  *  *

 

Everyone reconvenes in Granny’s at the end of the day, as agreed. When Emma arrives with Regina, they’re immediately met by a very excited Henry.

“Hey, kid,” Emma says, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Productive day?”

Henry makes a face. “Not really. We didn’t find anything about tracking. But we did find a spell for raising the dead, and did you know Killian’s been to Agrabah?”

“Uh, no, I did not know that,” Emma says, a little taken aback by this combination information and trying to process the twin images of zombies roaming through Storybrooke and Killian Jones roaming through Agrabah. Neither of those, she decides, are things she really wants to confront right now.

Henry doesn’t notice. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t tell me about it. Can’t you tell him that it’s okay to tell me about pirate stuff?”

Emma glances at Regina, who is wearing exactly the kind of raised-eyebrows, mildly annoyed expression that Emma was afraid of. Emma knows that Regina is getting the wrong idea again, but she can’t help but feel a little bit proud, too. Regina might have raised him, but between his enthusiasm for junk food and penchant for law-breaking, Henry is undoubtedly _her_ son, too.

“How about we leave the pirate stuff for another time, kid,” Emma says. “I think maybe Kil—well, _everyone’s_ a little more concerned with Operation Witch Hunt right now.”

Henry heaves a put-upon sigh. “That’s what Killian said.”

 “Ah, see?” Emma ignores the jolt in her stomach, and grins at her kid. “You’re out-voted. Come on. Let’s get some food, I’m starving.”

Her parents and Regina join them for dinner. Snow and David have nothing to report, either, and Regina treats them to a disdainful “I told you so” that has Snow smiling and shaking her head almost indulgently, and Emma wondering where the hell her mother gets her patience. It can’t be anything inherent in motherhood.

Belle, Hook, and Neal show up later. Neal has a wave and a grin for Emma, but he leaves it at that, because while Henry has thankfully failed to pick up on Snow and David’s rather cool behaviour towards Neal, Neal himself is observant enough to know, and smart enough to avoid exacerbating the situation. Belle confirms what Henry has already said: so far, they’ve found little useful information, but they haven’t even looked at a quarter of the books yet. She tells Emma that they’ll keep working tomorrow before joining Neal for a well-deserved burger and iced tea.

Hook, meanwhile, has settled on a stool at the bar, talking to Ruby over his plate of food with an air of reluctant cheerfulness. Emma feels marginally better about herself now that she knows it’s been a rather fruitless day for everyone, but the sight of Hook eating alone bothers her.

He’s not alone, she reminds herself. Ruby’s right there. So is Granny, throwing in the occasional remark and acting outraged when he spills a few drops of beer on the counter. Their laughter rings out across the diner, and Emma has to fight back an instinctive smile even as something small and mean coils in her stomach.

All right, so maybe the fact that he barely acknowledged her when he walked in is what bothers her.

“I’m gonna go get a hot chocolate,” she says, getting to her feet. “Henry, you want one?”

He gives her an exasperated look. “Do you even have to ask?”

She grins at him and makes her way over to the bar—and since Ruby and Granny are both talking to Hook, that’s where Emma goes, too. She swears that he shifts ever so slightly as she approaches, a new tension in his shoulders and in the way he grips his tankard.

“Hey, Emma,” Ruby says with a smile. “What’s up?”

“Can I get a hot chocolate?” Emma asks. “And one for Henry, too.”

“Sure.” Ruby grabs two mugs, and Emma leans against the counter to wait. Beside her, Hook is almost still enough to be a statue, and he isn’t even looking at her.

What the hell is going on?

“How’d it go with Jefferson?” she asks.

Granny, standing nearby with her arms crossed, rolls her eyes. “Exactly how you’d expect. He said he doesn’t know anything about Zelena, and wants nothing to do with it.”

“He did say realm travel is complicated,” Ruby adds, with an admonishing look at her grandmother. “And that it’s harder to get to this realm than any other, because there’s no magic here. Which, I’m not an expert or anything, but surely that means it’s easier to get to Storybrooke now, right? Since Rumplestiltskin unleashed magic here, or whatever he did?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Emma says, trying to think. It isn’t much, but it’s something to tell Regina. Unless Regina has already figured that much out herself. “Did he say anything about how?”

“Well, his hat’s broken,” Ruby says. “And he hasn’t managed to make a new one, not that I think he’s been trying. Aside from that, there’s magic beans, and enchanted wood like the one from the wardrobe.”

“Which is all gone,” Emma says. She looks at Hook. “Right?”

He finally meets her eyes. His face is guarded, and his eyes are devoid of their usual spark. “Cora told me that the vial she had was the last of it,” he said. “And I believe the grove where the wood was harvested has been dead for some time.”

Emma doesn’t really care how the Wicked Witch got to Storybrooke. She’s here, and she’s a problem, and that’s all that really matters. “I’ll tell Regina,” she says. “She can figure it out. Or not.”

Granny and Ruby exchange a look that says they share Emma’s attitude.

“You’ll excuse me, ladies,” Hook says politely, draining his tankard and pushing it back on the counter. “I want to get a little more work done before I turn in.”

“Seriously?” Ruby asks. “Come on, you were working all day. You need a break. Have a drink. Play some darts. You said you’re good.”

Hook smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps another time.”

Ruby looks at Emma, still smiling widely, but clearly a little put off by Hook’s attitude. “He’s turning out to be a bit of a nerd.”

“What the bloody hell is a—“ Hook breaks off, shakes his head. “Never mind. Excuse me. Good night.”

Emma and Ruby watch, equally nonplussed, as he makes them a bow and heads towards the hallway at the back of the diner that leads through to the guest rooms.

“What’s up with him?” Ruby asks, with an askance look at Emma. “You guys fight again or something?”

“No,” Emma says defensively. Why is that always everyone’s first assumption? “I haven’t even talked to him today.”

“Well, _something_ ain’t right,” Granny says, frowning as Hook exchanges a friendly good-night with Henry and her parents on his way out. Neal looks over at him too, a furtive, almost guilty expression on his face. Emma has no idea what that’s about, but she’s distracted from wondering about it when Granny goes on, “No flirting, no “love”, nothing to make David glare daggers across the room... he didn’t even smile at you. It’s weirding me out.”

“I can live with it,” Emma says wryly, as if Hook not flirting with her is a welcome change, as if another nameless feeling isn’t twisting her stomach. What _is_ up with him?

A flash of anger has her clenching her jaw, and she makes up her mind in an instant. She is _not_ spending another night in the loft, wondering what Captain Hook’s deal is. If he is still mad about her about yesterday, he’s going to tell her, damn him.

“Crap, the phone,” she says, seizing on the first excuse that comes to mind. “I said I’d fix it for him. I’ll be right back.”

Not waiting for a response from the other two, she hurries after Hook, doing her best to look businesslike and exasperated.

She slows down once she reaches the hallway. She really hopes that he’s gone back to the communal living room, and not straight up to bed. He might not be in innuendo mode right now, but she’s not sure that ought to be tested by her knocking on his bedroom door.

But he’s in the living room, sprawled in an armchair and glowering at a journal so old it’s almost falling apart in his hand. He looks up when she stops in the doorway, and she can’t read the expression on his face, but it looks almost like fear.

“Hey,” she says. “I wanted to... uh, your phone? You said the time’s wrong.”

“I said it’s fine,” he reminds her. “It’s fine, Swan.”

Well, if he’s going to be like that...

“Fine.” She turns to go. Then she stops, because she remembers why she really came here and that the phone is a really lame excuse anyway. “Wait, no. I wanted to talk to you.”

He glances around, as if hoping to see someone else behind her. “No offence, love, but can it wait?”

“I just want to know what’s going on,” Emma says, and steels herself. “Are you mad at me or something?”

That gives him pause, and for a moment, she catches a glimpse of the real Killian Jones, unguarded and a little concerned. “Why would—no, I’m not angry at you.”

“Because if you are, you can just say so,” Emma goes on, determined to see this through. “I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

It occurs to her that maybe that wasn’t the best wording she could have chosen. Especially not when his eyes are still on hers, intent and sincere and full of something Emma can never quite name. “I’m well aware.”

“Good,” is all Emma can think to say. They look at each other for another long moment.

Then he clears his throat, and presses his lips together, and his gaze slides away from her. “I’m not angry, Swan. I may be a little preoccupied with this,” he brandishes the journal as if it’s a shield, “and I apologise if I’ve been rude.”

It’s not an outright lie, more a deflection. He’s not angry. But Emma suddenly almost wishes that he was. She can handle angry. This strange, almost sad formality is worse. She knows what it is, can recognise the look of defences going up from miles away—and it feels like there are miles between them now.

And unlike him, she has no idea how to bridge them. She might have reached out to him before, offered him a place to belong here, but she’s never been good at making friends. The only relationships she has have come about because the people involved reached out to her, and kept reaching out despite her admitted reluctance to co-operate. It’s not like she makes it easy for people.

Maybe Hook has finally realised just how difficult she can be—and she hates to admit it, but she has been a lot harder on him than on Henry, or her parents, or really anyone else. Maybe he’s finally given up on trying. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at her like that, with that sad sort of resignation.

The thought hurts more than she wants to admit.

“It’s okay,” she says, relieved when her voice doesn’t break like it’s threatening to. “I guess we’re all a bit... I just wanted to make sure, you know. We’re good. The last thing we need right now is to fight each other or something.”

Hook nods, and his eyes meet hers again, though they’re shuttered now, defences in place. “I agree. I’m on your side, Emma, even if... I’m on your side, and I’ll do everything in my power to help resolve all of this. I promise you that.”

It’s an oddly intense sort of promise to make, Emma thinks, but it comes as something of a relief. Needlessly intense promises are exactly what she’s come to expect from Killian Jones.

“Good,” she says again. “Good. Well, uh, good luck then?” She gestures towards the pile of journals and books before him.

“Thank you.”

She hesitates. “And uh. Good night.”

His smile is a quick thing this time, so quick that she suspects it might be involuntary. “Good night.”

There’s a part of her that doesn’t want to leave him there, some strange instinct screaming at her to get back there and shake the truth from him. She ignores it. Even if she had the inclination, she certainly doesn’t have the right.

Anyway, it probably doesn’t even mean anything. For all she knows, he really is just preoccupied with the task before them—the way she ought to be, Emma tells herself sternly. She’s always been disdainful of girls in certain types of novels who would get hopelessly distracted by a guy, and obsess over his every dumb comment and mood. She is _not_ going to turn into one of them.

And Hook certainly isn’t anything like the guys in those novels.

“Well, did you fix it?” Granny asks when she gets back to the diner and picks up the two mugs of hot chocolate.

“What?” Emma asks, and remembers the phone. “Oh. I, uh, I’m not sure.”

Granny gives her a searching sort of look, which turns to far more understanding than Emma is really comfortable with. “Let’s hope so,” she says. “And he’d better appreciate you trying, or I’ll shoot him.”

It’s so unexpected and unorthodox that Emma laughs. And she’ll never admit it, not out loud at least, but it does make her feel a little better.

Although she does end up spending far longer than she’d like lying awake in the loft, wondering what Captain Hook’s deal is. And trying in vain to figure out what Regina meant by running through her feelings, because she could really, really do with a bit of order in there.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian is getting ready for bed when his telephone rings. He finishes tugging off his shirt and scrambles to answer, his heart beating faster. A call at this time of day can’t possibly be good.

It isn’t.

“Hello again, Captain,” Zelena’s voice comes over the line.

Killian grits his teeth. “I’m told it’s rude to call people at this hour.”

“I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be overheard,” Zelena says pleasantly. “But we need to have a little chat. You haven’t done what I told you.”

He glares at the wall, and makes an attempt at his best irritatingly-nonchalant tone. “You’ve clearly never tried to woo a lady. It takes time.”

“You’re not trying,” Zelena snaps.

“Perhaps I’m just not as charming as you think I am.”

“You don’t need to be charming, you just need to kiss her.”

“That isn’t quite how it works,” he says, as if explaining it to one of the idiots he’s met in port taverns, the kind of men who think that groping a woman’s chest is the way to her heart, or at least her bed. “Bad form, to kiss a woman, or indeed anyone, without their consent. Very bad form indeed. And if you think Emma would allow such a thing, I’m sorry to say you’re even stupider than I thought.”

He didn’t expect this to do anything other than enrage Zelena further, and it doesn’t. “Consider this your last warning,” she hisses. “Remove her magic, or I’ll start hurting those she loves, starting with her little brat.”

The line goes dead.

Killian glares at the wall for a moment longer. Then he tosses the telephone onto his bed and flings himself onto the lone chair in his room. His hand goes to the flask at his belt, but after a moment’s hesitation, he tosses that onto his bed, too. He needs a clear head.

The journals and papers he’s brought upstairs are piled haphazardly on the tiny desk in front of him, and he turns his attention to rifling through them and putting them into some semblance of order.

If there’s any kind of answer in here, he’s going to bloody find it.


	13. Chapter 13

Killian does not find any answers during the night. He does manage to get through almost all of the material he brought with him before finally throwing in the towel at dawn, and getting a half-hour’s sleep before going down for breakfast and more research.

Coffee helps. So does the bright electric light, and Granny’s comments, which always keep him on his toes.

“You look exhausted,” she tells him irritably as she refills his cup.

“And you look as lovely as ever,” he counters.

Granny is not charmed. “Don’t change the subject. You should go back upstairs, get some sleep. You won’t be any use when you’re falling asleep.”

“I don’t intend to fall asleep,” he assures her. “I’m fine.”

It’s only a little untrue. “Fine” is something else, but “fine” isn’t a possibility at the moment, even if he sleeps for a week. But he’s captained his ship through storms on less sleep than this.

“Y’know Emma’s not gonna think much of your devilish good looks today, either,” Granny tells him bluntly, the provocation clear.

“She never does,” Killian retorts. “I’ve given up my efforts in that regard.”

Granny snorts with laughter. “Of course you have.”

Killian glares at her.

As soon as he can, he makes his escape from the diner and gets back to work. By the time Belle and Ruby join him, he’s almost finished looking through his stack of journals and papers. By the time Henry shows up, he knows that there’s no answer in there.

Nothing except a confirmation that Zelena’s curse works, and that his selfishness is to blame for it.

He shouldn’t love Emma. He doesn’t, really, does he? Love is selfless, even he knows that. What he feels isn’t real love, it’s a pretension of it.

And maybe, just maybe, if he can manage to get rid of his feelings for her, the curse won’t work anymore. He needs to get over this infatuation of his, accept that there are things that simply aren’t in the cards for Captain Hook, and stop dragging good people down with him.

He hates this plan. Unfortunately, so far, it’s the only one he’s got.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal has not given up his morning coffee or his lunch, despite the fact that his heart now gives a nervous jump every time he leaves Granny’s diner. He debated avoiding the place, and with it the risk of running into David, but something in him rebelled at the thought. He’s a free man. He’s not going to be intimidated.

Still, when he catches a glimpse of a blond figure behind him as he’s pushing the door open, his heart pulses up into his throat once more.

But it’s not Emma, or David.

“Neal!” Tinkerbell calls out. She’s smiling as she hurries across the diner to join him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, relief making his own smile that bit wider. “What’re you doing here?”

“I just came to see the guys in the B&B,” Tink says, stepping past him as he holds the door open for her. “Hook wanted me to look at a few things. Not that I was much help.”

“With their magic research stuff?” Neal asks, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air outside is cold, making him shiver. He reaches down to zip up his coat.

“Yeah.” Tink heaves a sigh, which fogs in the air. “I don’t know much about the theory. If I still had my wings, maybe I could figure it out, but...” She shrugs.

He shrugs, too. “They’ll find answers if there are any,” he tells her. “And y’know, wings or not, you’re still awesome.”

She grins at him. Her nose is starting to redden with the cold, but her eyes are bright, and she looks as pretty as ever. “Thanks.”

He grins back. “So, where are you headed?”

“Back to patrol,” Tink says with another sigh. “Trying to keep people safe from flying monkeys. You know. Just another day in the life.”

He laughs. “Right.”

“Hey...” She hesitates for a moment. “Have you, uh, seen Hook lately?”

Neal’s heart, already on edge, gives another nervous thud. “Yeah. I checked in on Henry earlier.”

“Did he seem kind of... off, to you?” Tink asks.

 _Off_ is a kind word for it, Neal thinks. When he went in to say hi to Henry and the others earlier, it was to find Killian bent over a heavy, leather-bound book, eyes flicking feverishly across the pages. He didn’t say much beyond a polite greeting, but there’s been a tiny, gnawing sliver of guilt lodged in Neal’s chest ever since, and it refuses to budge no matter how much he argues with it.

Because Killian Jones looks _miserable_. His eyes shadowed, his hair a dark tangle, and no colour in his cheeks. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all. He looks, in fact, like a man cursed.

Neal found that he didn’t want to look at him, but he couldn’t seem to stop his eyes straying back.

“Yeah,” he says, because there’s no way he can deny it. “Tired.”

Tink dismisses that with an impatient shake of her head, which sends a few wisps of blond hair flying around her face. “I’ve seen him tired. I’ve never seen him like _that_. You have any idea what’s up with him?”

_Yeah. I cursed him._

It’s not technically true, but he learned a long time ago that technicalities don’t matter much to feelings. The sliver of guilt twists a little, like a knife in an open wound.

“Who knows?” he says, trying for an unconcerned tone. “It’s Killian. He’s always been moody.”

“I thought maybe something had happened with Emma,” Tink says, and she’s clearly trying for a casual tone too, but he can see the caution in her eyes, knows what she’s getting at.

He shrugs again, ignoring the little jab in his heart. Emma wasn’t with the others in the B&B, but Henry was. The knowledge that his son is spending the day with Killian sits heavy in his gut, too. He’s been trying to tell himself that at least Killian will keep the boy safe, but all that’s done is made him feel even more guilty.

“I wouldn’t know,” he tells Tink, with an effort. “But I, uh, I don’t think so.”

“Right.” Tink mulls it over for a moment, then gives him a wry sort of smile. “Guess it’s none of our business, huh?”

“Killian’s a big boy,” Neal says automatically. “He can take care of himself.”

The words are more to reassure Tink, who seems to be genuinely concerned, than any kind of truth.

The guilt shard twists a little more.

It seemed like the perfect solution when he first thought of it, and it worked like a charm, too. He knew it would. He knows Killian better than he cares to admit, knows the weight of guilt that the man carries.

He’s carrying more of it now.

There’s a persistent voice at the back of his head suggesting that maybe it was a mistake to use him like this.

 “Right,” Tink says again. “I have to get back, I’m supposed to be helping Blue protect everyone from these monkey things. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. See ya.” Neal lifts a hand in farewell as she hurries off down the road.

He tries to think about what she said. Tries to imagine bringing up the fact that Tinkerbell and the other fairies are protecting people from the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys, the next time he talks to Emma, to maybe coax a smile from her.

But his thoughts remain stubbornly on Killian.

Killian owes him, he reminds himself. He took his family away from him once. He owes it to him to help him now.

But he can’t quite shut out the memory of Killian pulling him from the sea, Killian teaching him to handle a sword, Killian helping them save Henry from Pan.

Killian smiling at Emma like he just can’t help it.

It’s hard to argue that the man doesn’t care. And so the tiny niggle of guilt remains, and he has to remind himself that it’ll be worth it. It’ll all be worth it. It’s not like Killian is going to get hurt. The whole point of this, he reminds himself, is to make sure that no one can get hurt anymore.

Zelena has agreed to keep his father’s dagger, at least. She offered it to him at first, and that memory tears at him, too, taunting him. He remembers looking at the blade, knowing that he could take it, own it, use it. He found the strength to reject it, terrified at the way his mind immediately jumped to ideas for how he could use it—to do good, of course, but he knows that it doesn’t matter. His father wanted to use it for good, too.

Intentions are never worth a damn, in the end.

He still doesn’t like the idea of his father being under anyone’s control, but he knows that Rumplestiltskin can’t be trusted, either. His father lied to Belle about giving her the dagger. He has lied about so many things. If Neal trusts him, he’ll twist it and use it and throw it back in his face.

But once Emma’s magic is taken, his father’s can be bound with it. Zelena has figured out a way to do it, and it’s this that persuaded Neal to agree to her plan. He always expected to have to leave his father behind. But if they can bind his magic... if his father can no longer be tempted by power... maybe, just maybe, Neal can have his Papa back, too.

It all makes sense. It’s going to work. It will be worth it. It’s the only way to fix everything. He knows that.

But with the memory of Killian’s haunted, shadowed face fresh in his mind, the words ring just a little hollow.

 

*  *  *

 

“So,” David asks when Emma joins him and Snow for breakfast. “Same plan today?”

Emma sinks gracelessly onto her chair, already looking forward to the evening. “I guess so.”

“How’s the magic coming?” David asks, pouring coffee into her mug.

“Don’t ask,” Emma says with a grimace. She’s been dreading the prospect of going back to Regina’s vault ever since she woke up. She knows that she’s no closer to sorting out the turmoil in her mind; if anything, she now has extra anxiety to deal with, because she already knows that she’ll mess it up.

Sympathy softens David’s eyes. “That bad?”

“I thought you were getting the hang of it,” Snow says with a slight frown. Her concern makes Emma feel worse, reminding her that everyone is relying on her.

“Yeah, well,” Emma says. Part of her, the part that still remembers all the old habits, is already regretting the admission that she’s having trouble. But if she keeps pretending everything is fine, everyone will expect her to just sweep Zelena away with a wave of her hand when the time comes. She’s pretty sure that will only make things worse.

Snow is still looking at her like she wants to know more, and Emma hates the thought of brushing her off. But she doesn’t much want to share the details and reasons of her failing, either.

She settles for, “It’s just a bit... well. Regina keeps saying magic is emotion, but then she tells me to, like, shove my emotions aside, and it’s just...” She offers a wry smile. “Y’know. Kind of hard to do both.”

This is not entirely fair to Regina, but it’s the best Emma can do. There’s no way she’s about to try and explain Regina’s instructions, which she still doesn’t understand, to Snow.

Snow lets out a rueful sort of laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds like Regina. You can’t just shove your emotions aside, that never works. I might not know anything about magic, but I know that.”

David is nodding. Emma looks from him back to Snow, and asks, casually, “What d’you mean?”

 “I mean trying to ignore how you feel is just going to make it worse,” Snow says earnestly. “It’s like, I don’t know, like trying to ignore a crying baby. You can’t. You have to take care of it.” Emma catches the pain that flashes across her mother’s face, brief, but heart-wrenching. Snow smiles again, though Emma can see the effort it takes. “You know what I mean? It’ll just keep demanding your attention until you give it attention. That’s what my mother always told me.”

“So don’t ignore it,” Emma says. “Right.”

“Yeah, you have to let yourself feel it,” Snow adds. “Figure out what it is, where it is. I remember I used to get so frustrated over archery practice, it was like a lump right here.” She holds a hand to her throat. “So you feel it, you figure out what it is and why it’s there, and then you can let it go. Or at least it’ll stop distracting and confusing you, because you know what it is.”

That sounds a little like what Regina told her yesterday, but somehow, the way Snow says it makes a lot more sense. Emma nods, feeling a cautious wave of relief at the unexpected help. It’s a light, airy sort of feeling, she notes, which spreads from under her ribcage to her shoulders. “Makes sense.”

David still looks concerned. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” he says. “Regina teaching you, I mean.”

“She’s kind of my only option,” Emma reminds him.

He shakes his head. “I still don’t see why Blue can’t teach you.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Emma shrugs, just a little wistfully. It would be nice to have a more patient teacher. But she already knows the answer to this one. “Fairy magic is different. It can’t be taught.”

“Sure, but she must have some insights,” David insists. “Or what about Tinkerbell? I mean, she’s been having trouble with her magic, too, but she did get better again when we were working on the _Jolly Roger_.”

Emma grimaces. She definitely doesn’t want to ask Tinkerbell for help. “I think she’s got enough to worry about. Really, it’s fine. I can handle Regina.”

“All right,” David relents. “Maybe you should just try it Snow’s way. Can’t hurt, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, unwilling to sound too optimistic until she actually tries again. “Maybe.”

To her own surprise, it does indeed help. With Snow’s added explanation, Regina’s instructions make more sense, and while Emma feels supremely ridiculous sitting in the vault trying to sort out her emotions, at least she finally knows what she’s trying to do.

And it works. Sort of.

Her frustration is a tight coil right beneath her ribcage, fuelled by fear and confusion. Her anxiety about her magic is an occasional jolt in her gut, almost like a punch.

There’s also a weird, unpleasantly warm, vice-like feeling around her middle, and a tingling under her skin, and another, very different kind of tingling in the pit of her stomach that only appears sometimes.

Like when she thinks about maybe heading to Granny’s for lunch.

Or when her mind flicks back to last night’s conversation with Hook.

Or when she thinks of Hook in general.

 _No_ , she tells herself. It’s not _like_ that. It’s just because he’s being so weird at the moment. It’s just another anxiety thing. It’s an unsolved mystery, and she hates those.

They don’t usually make her stomach tingle, but then again, Hook lives to defy the rules and everything that falls under “usually”. The man wears _suspenders_ , for crying out loud. And somehow he makes them look _good_.

Emma shakes her head to get that mental image out of her head, all but glaring at her own hands.

 _Concentrate_.

“Okay,” she says to Regina, who is standing across the vault, digging gingerly through an ancient-looking, dust-covered chest. “Okay. You said it’s like taking a step, right?”

Regina looks over. “Right. Just don’t—whatever way you did it yesterday, don’t do that. Just focus on the object as a whole. It’s one thing. Remember that.”

It’s a strange thing to focus on, but Emma does her best anyway. The last thing she wants is another mishap like yesterday’s, especially since the whole point is to be able to transport herself across town. She does _not_ want to leave any parts of herself behind.

She starts from scratch. _Look at the object. Focus on where it is. Focus on where you want it to be._ Emma squeezes her eyes shut. _And... move._

She opens one eye. The vase, still handle-less from yesterday, is still standing right where it was.

She tries again. This time she remembers to centre herself first, to draw up a tendril of magic like Regina taught her. She wraps it around the thought: _move_.

The vase disappears. Emma looks over to the shelf, and grins. “Bam!”

Regina glances over to where the vase is now standing, whole aside from the missing handle. Her expression relaxes into one of relief. Relief and, for the briefest instant, something else. Something like satisfaction, or even pride.

“Finally,” is all she says.

Emma screws up her nose, wishing someone else was here to exchange exasperated glances with. She could probably defeat the Wicked Witch single-handedly, in the world’s most perfect display of magic, and Regina would make a remark about the state of her clothes.

“Try it again,” Regina says, gesturing at the vase. “From there. Call it back to you.”

“Seriously?” Emma is aware that she sounds a little petulant, but she can’t manage to care. “I just did it for the first time, can’t I just practice it the same way again first?”

Regina shrugs, already annoyed again. “Fine, if you want to take all—”

But she cuts off as Emma’s phone begins to ring. Emma scrambles for it, her heart immediately beginning to pound in her ears. She’s not waiting for any calls, and with everything that’s going on, a call probably means news.

Her heart skips a little more when she sees the name flashing on the screen. _Killian_.

She answers and presses the phone to her ear. “Yeah?”

“Emma!” It’s not Killian. It’s Ruby, her voice too loud and breathless. “We’re under attack, they just—” There’s a thud, an ear-splitting crack like a gun shot, and a familiar-sounding bestial shriek. A man’s voice bites out a curse and yells, the word indistinct amid the cacophony. Emma’s eyes have gone wide, and she’s on her feet, her blood pounding in her ears.

“Ruby? Ruby!”

More noise, a ringing sound like metal hitting a wall. Then Ruby’s voice is back. “Emma? Can you hear—”

“Is Henry okay?” she demands, because she has to, she has to.

“Yeah,” Ruby assures her. The phone is jostled, and moments later, something metal hits something solid with a ringing sound. “He’s fine, but we—”

“Damn it, girl, just tell her to get over here!” That’s Granny’s voice, sounding harder than Emma has ever heard it. “And you, boy, stay _back_!”

“Stay back yourself!” That’s unmistakably Hook’s voice, angry and grim.

“Emma—” Ruby starts.

“I’m on my way,” Emma says, looking over at Regina, who has caught on that something is wrong. She’s calm, but her dark eyes are intent, focused. Emma is reminded strongly of a panther, waiting to spring.

“Where?” is all Regina asks.

“The B&B,” Emma says, going by assumption, and the way the muffled thuds she heard implied carpeted floors.

Regina nods and lifts a hand. Purple smoke billows around them, and Emma, still holding the phone, prepares for a fight.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian is in the middle of translating a particularly troublesome Greek passage for Belle when the first screams sound from the diner.

“What was—” Belle begins.

Killian is already on his feet, his hand going for the sword he’s left leaning against the table. He pulls it free, the scabbard flying off towards the sofa, just as Granny comes bursting into the room. She’s holding a crossbow.

“Out!” she calls. “Quickly, come on!”

Killian doesn’t question the order. He turns to Henry, who is sitting stock still, his eyes wide as he looks over at Granny.

“Henry,” he snaps. “Move, lad. Out.”

The boy does as he’s told, following Belle and Ruby to the door. Killian brings up the rear, though he pushes past all of them once they’re out in the hallway.

“What is it?” he asks Granny.

“That witch and her pets,” Granny says, and there’s a savage light in her eyes as she leads the way along the hallway towards the stairs. “Come on, we need to get out before—”

There’s a flash of movement ahead of him. Killian snags Granny’s arm with his hook. “Not that way,” he says tersely.

“There’s no oth—”

But Granny’s words are cut off by Belle’s alarmed yell as a mass of grey-winged monkeys comes boiling up the stairs.

“Back!” Killian snaps, spreading his arms and shooting a glance over his shoulder. He’s about to order the others into one of the rooms when it occurs to him that rooms have windows. Big ones.

_Damn it._

He runs a quick inventory: Granny has the crossbow, Ruby has her werewolf thing, and he’s got weapons aplenty. Nothing that stands any real hope against a witch, but he’s been in worse situations.

Probably.

“Belle, keep the lad behind me,” Killian orders. “Stay with him and move back when I say.”

“I can help—” Henry begins. Granny’s crossbow whirs as she fires her first bolt.

“Stay behind me!” Killian bellows, as if he’s shouting at his crew. Belle takes Henry by the hand and pulls him back a little, against the wall. The boy doesn’t protest again.

“Call Emma!” Granny calls over the noise of flapping wings and unholy shrieks. “We need backup!”

Killian is about to comply when he realises that using a phone while fighting requires a limb he no longer has. He hands Ruby his sword, then digs out his phone and hands that to her, too. “Here. She’s number 1.”

Ruby’s fingers are shaking a little, but she takes the phone and gives him a steady sort of look, the kind of look that tells him that she might be scared, but she’ll do whatever is needed.

“Stay behind me,” Killian reminds her, pulling a pistol from his belt as he faces their attackers. Granny is reloading her crossbow.

Killian takes aim and shoots the closest of the winged beasts, watches it explode into fiery ash. He tosses it aside; he’ll never get it reloaded in time anyway.

Granny shoots the next one while Killian grabs his other pistol from the holster under his shoulder. They retreat another few steps down the corridor.

“Last shot,” he warns, taking aim again. At least the hallway is hampering their attackers, too, the cramped space impeding their wings somewhat. Their agility, unfortunately, goes a long way towards making up for it.

Laughter rings along the hallway ahead of them, coming up the stairs. Zelena’s voice shouts some manner of encouragement at her hell beasts, sounding delighted. Killian grits his teeth.

“Emma!” Ruby’s voice shouts behind him.

Two monkeys dive towards them. Killian flings out his arm, pulling Granny back and out of the way. She stumbles, hitting the wall with a thud, and Killian dives in front of her, bringing his second pistol to bear.

The shot rings out, reducing the foremost monkey to ash. The other one shrieks and redoubles its efforts to reach them.

“Bloody, buggering hell,” Killian grits out. This time, he throws the pistol at his attacker. It clips the monkey on the shoulder and knocks it back, just barely. He reaches back, his hand open. “Sword!”

Ruby presses the hilt into his hand moments later, and Killian moves forward.

“Damn it, girl, just tell her to get over here!” Granny fires another crossbow bolt, her expression grim as she admonishes her granddaughter.

Then she catches sight of Killian, now slightly ahead of her, his sword in high guard in front of him. “And you, boy, stay _back_!”

“Stay back yourself!” Killian snaps as the monkey charges towards them. She might have a ranged weapon, but she’s got to reload it first. Hasn’t she ever heard of tactics?

The monkey makes a grab for his sword, moving unnaturally fast. Killian growls and slashes at it with his hook. Sparks fly, and the monkey howls and falls back.

“Emma’s on her—” Ruby calls behind him, but she cuts off abruptly.

Zelena has appeared in the hallway, smiling madly. She flicks her hand, and an invisible force slams Ruby and Killian into the wall. Pain spikes through his shoulder and he hits the ground hard. The sword is levered from his grasp and clangs to the floor somewhere to his right.

A dark, grey shape is diving towards him. Ruby screams something. Granny curses. He struggles to get his feet under him, knowing he won’t make it—

Then Belle is there, sword flashing in her hand as she shouts a wordless challenge at the nearest beast.

“Get back!” Granny orders from somewhere behind them, her voice cracking.

Killian pushes to his feet, but Zelena waves her hand again, sending Belle stumbling backwards into him. This time, he hits the ground, sharp sparks of agony shooting along his back. Belle lands on top of him with a grunt, the pommel of his sword in her hand hitting his hip bone with painful accuracy.

“I told you to get on with it, Captain!” Zelena’s voice comes from above him.

“Killian!” Henry yells. His voice is high with fear, and the sound cuts Killian to the core. The boy. He has to keep them away from the boy.

Belle rolls off him even as he begins to push himself backwards along the floor, towards where Henry is standing with his back to the wall. Ruby has planted herself in front of him, her eyes wide and scared, but her mouth set in determination.

“Go,” he gasps. “Into the room—”

A door at the other end of the hallway bursts open, and two winged monkeys burst through it, roaring a challenge.

 _Windows_ , Killian thinks, his heart sinking to somewhere around his knees.

He scrambles to his feet anyway, drawing his dagger from the sheath in his boot along the way. It won’t do much good, but it’s better than nothing, and they need time. Emma is on her way. If he can just buy her another couple of minutes—

“Stand aside,” Zelena calls lazily. “No one else needs to get hurt.”

“ _You_ stand aside,” Granny counters, her voice hard. She looks almost calm.

Then another shot rings out, somewhere behind Zelena.

“Hey!” That’s a new voice, familiar in its anger, and it drives away Killian’s rising despair. _Emma_.

Zelena whirls around. Killian can’t see exactly what happens next, but there are more bestial shrieks, and another two gun shots in quick succession. Then Zelena staggers back, hit by something invisible. Emma comes into view, looking wild and furious, a gun in one hand. The other is raised, palm outwards. Hurrying up behind her is Regina, looking equally angry, though Killian barely registers her.

“Get away from them,” Emma snarls.

From the little Killian can see of Zelena’s expression, she looks shocked at Emma’s sudden appearance. But anger quickly takes over her features. She directs one last sneering look at Killian, then green smoke wraps around her and her remaining monkeys, and they’re gone.

“Henry!” Emma gasps, and she and Regina run along the hallway. Killian moves out of the way as Henry is enveloped in a hug by both of his mothers in turn.

Killian turns to Belle, who is still standing next to him, her breath still coming fast. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Belle nods, her eyes looking him over critically. “You?”

The question takes him by surprise. “Aye.” After another beat, he tries a smile. “I told you to stay back.”

She arches a brow. “Is that a complaint?”

His smile widens. “Not at all. Thank you.”

She smiles back. It’s the first time she’s ever looked at him without that lingering touch of disdain. “You, too.”

“Everyone okay?” Emma demands. She looks fierce, her hair a tangle of blond curls, her eyes wide and blazing as they sweep across their small group. When her gaze rakes across Killian, he’s caught off-guard by the intensity of it, and he swears he can feel it all the way to his toes, as if she’s actually touching him.

“I think so,” Ruby says. She’s got one arm around Granny, and she looks a little shaken. “What was that about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Regina says, her voice sharp. She’s got one arm curled protectively around Henry, who isn’t protesting. “How the hell did that witch get in here?”

“Maybe the wards were—” Emma looks almost scared as she turns to Regina. “Did I do it wrong? Did I—”

Regina waves her off impatiently. “No, you didn’t. The wards were fine. Textbook.” She glares at Granny. “What exactly happened?”

“I was working in the diner when she showed up with her little pets,” Granny says. “Told everyone to get out or die. I ran out to the B&B to the others, but she followed. Don’t ask me how,” she adds, lifting her chin defiantly. “I’m not the magic expert.”

“Apparently, neither am I,” Regina mutters, clearly distracted.

“Okay, let’s just...” Emma breaks off, releasing a stressed-sounding breath. “Let’s figure this out. Regina, maybe you can check the wards, and we’ll...” She looks around at them all. “Let’s all take a minute, okay?”

Belle nods, then seems to realise that she’s still holding Killian’s cutlass and holds it out to him. “Here.”

“One moment.” He stows the dagger back in its boot sheath, then takes the sword from Belle. His sword belt is still in the living room, so he keeps the cutlass in his hand as he walks down the corridor to retrieve his pistols.

When he holds the cutlass between his legs in order to stow the second pistol back in its holster, he looks up to find Emma watching him. Her eyebrows are raised slightly, and he thinks that he catches something in her expression, some manner of appraisal, which flees immediately when she realises he’s looking at her.

“You sure you’ve got enough weapons?” she asks, and there’s the tiniest quirk to her mouth, the slightest sparkle in her eyes. He recognises it all too well, and he would have been delighted by it only a few days ago.

If she’s decided that _now_ is the time to start flirting with him, he’s going to lose whatever is left of his sanity.

Because he can’t return it. He can’t voice any of the replies that come to mind first, ranging from smart to suggestive. He can’t grin at her like he wants to.

“Not entirely, no,” he says. “That was rather too close for comfort.”

The sparkle dies. “Yeah.” She presses her lips together. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it.” He knows that he’s being rude, knows that his words are coming out surly, but he can’t help it. Anger is packed tight in his chest, and it’s taking all of his willpower to keep it contained. He wants to stab something, preferably Zelena. She tried to hurt the boy, tried to turn him into a pawn...

It’s been a while since he’s wanted anyone dead, but it’s hard to resist this one.

At least his mood and manners, or rather, lack of manners, ought to prevent any positive thoughts or feelings that Emma might have had towards him. And curb any further inclination she might have to flirt with him, because of bloody _course_ she would decide that _now_ is the time to start doing so.

It’s enough to make a man want to scream.

He doesn’t scream. He just picks up his cutlass and motions towards where the others are already filing into the living room. “Shall we?”

She nods, though not before giving him a long, searching look. “Right.”

And so, he finds himself in a room with Emma yet again, standing far too close to her, trying his damnedest to ignore the way her eyes are blazing and her body is tight with tension. Damn, but the woman is a fighter. Every tough, beautiful, stubborn inch of her.

He can’t leave, because he’s needed here. He can’t look away from her, because she’s in charge. He can’t refuse to answer her questions. He can’t stop thinking about that spark in her eye. He can’t seem to get his heart rate under control.

He’s in hell.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma hugs Henry to her again for good measure as Granny finishes her account of the attack. That was too close. That was far too close.

Her heart is still pounding at the memory of it, of seeing Hook scrambling desperately to get to Henry, of Henry backed up against the wall, of the three women looking determined as they faced their attackers. She knows that none of them would have stood a chance against Zelena, and the knowledge is a deep, yawning pit somewhere inside her. They were supposed to be _safe_.

“Killian’s the only one she talked to,” Granny said, when Emma asks her if she knows why Zelena was here.

Emma turns her eyes on him, silently questioning.

He looks almost menacing in his surliness. He has slung his sword belt back around his waist, cutlass sheathed, and he looks ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

It’s a good look on him. She tries very hard not to notice, and fails miserably.

 “Aye,” he says, his voice gruff. “I believe she—she—” His throat works, and his brow furrows, in apparent surprise and annoyance. He seems to be struggling to find the right words. “I believe she was after the boy.”

“Henry?” Emma says, automatically reaching for him again. “Why?”

Hook swallows. He’s having trouble meeting her eyes, but he’s doing it, though their blue is half-obscured behind inky black lashes. He looks tired, the smudges under his eyes a dark, stark contrast to the paleness of the rest of his face. His hair is unrulier than ever, like he’s been running his hands through it all morning, and there’s something different about his whole body. She’s trying to figure out whether he’s changed clothes or something when she realises that it’s the absence of his usual swagger—or rather, the way it looks habitual, like he’s going through the motions.

 Again, he tries to speak, but he’s apparently lost for words.

“Oh, come on,” Regina snaps. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s trying to get to you. Hit your weak spot.”

She gestures to Henry as she says it, but Emma knows, she just _knows_ , that she means more than that. Hook was here, too.

But it’s not _like_ that. How many times does she have to tell Regina that?

“Oh, she’ll _get_ to me,” Emma says, and the words make no sense as a threat, but her voice turns it into one anyway. “I’m gonna—”

Footsteps clatter along the hallway. In an instant, Emma has pushed Henry behind her. Granny lifts her crossbow and plants herself between Ruby and Belle, and the door. Hook draws his sword, moving in so he’s out of Emma’s line of fire, but close enough to cover her.

“Emma?”

Snow comes bursting through the door, closely followed by David. She comes to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening at the assortment of weaponry now pointing at her. “Uh... what’s going on?”

Granny lowers her crossbow. Hook re-sheathes his sword. Emma lets go of Henry and does her best not to notice Hook’s practiced motions or his sure stance or the way she can see his muscles flexing under his stupid pirate shirt.

“Zelena,” she says. “She attacked. We just finished chasing her off.”

Snow’s eyes grow wider. David’s hand goes to his gun. “Everyone okay?” he asks.

“We’re fine.” Before Emma can elaborate, Regina appears behind Snow and David, who are still frozen in the doorway. She gives them an expectant look, huffs impatiently when they don’t move, and pushes past them into the room. “Well, she broke past the wards somehow,” she says. “I think it might be time to call the fairies, much as I—”

“Regina,” Snow says, sounding confused.

“What?” Regina snaps.

“Wait, how did—” David shakes his head, looks at Snow, who looks just as confused as he does. “How are you _here_?”

 “What do you mean?” Regina looks at them both as though they just asked what colour the sky is. “We were in my vault, we got the call, I poofed us here—”

Snow is shaking her head. “We _just_ saw you in your office. How did—”

Now Regina looks confused. “I haven’t been in my office all day.”

“We saw you,” David insists. “We were wondering what you were doing there, because we thought you were in the vault with Emma.”

“She was,” Emma says, but even as she says it, a terrible thought rears its head. “That wasn’t Regina.”

“It had to be,” Snow insists. “Who else would be able to get in there?”

“No one,” Regina says, with finality.

“No one was supposed to be able to get past your wards,” Hook says, his voice dark with suspicion. “I did wonder why she’d attack like this, in broad daylight. I thought she’d simply neglected to account for telephones.”

“Guess it _wasn’t_ just about me,” Emma says. “The oldest trick in the book. Damn it.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Snow asks.

“A diversion.” Emma and Hook say it unison. They exchange a quick, startled glance, and drop their gaze again just as fast.

Snow looks from one to the other, her brows rising in understanding. “Ah.”

 _No_ , Emma wants to shout. _Not “ah”. It’s not like that._

Granny is looking at them far too knowingly, too. In fact, Emma is pretty sure the whole room is thinking along the same lines, like they all _know_.

Not that there’s anything to know. There isn’t. That’s why it’s so _bloody_ frustrating when everyone keeps...

Well, not exactly interfering. But paying far too much attention.

“That makes sense,” Snow is saying. “Attacking Henry is guaranteed to distract both of you.”

Emma almost glares at her before she realises that Snow is looking at _Regina_ , not Hook.

“Okay, but a diversion wouldn’t do her any good,” Regina says. “I sealed my office with a blood lock. No one can get past that.”

Granny gives her a disdainful look, the kind of look that Regina usually reserves for Emma. “Well, unless you were somehow there and here at the same time, someone did.”

“And if she went to all this trouble, I’d say it was for a very good reason,” Hook adds.

Regina glares at him, then at Emma. “Look after Henry. _Properly_ , this time.” Then, without another word, she vanishes in a cloud of smoke.

“A pleasure, as always,” David says with a sigh, shaking his head. “So now what?”

“Now we figure out a better way to keep everyone safe,” Emma says.

“If I may...” Hook sounds a little hesitant, but he forges ahead. “Perhaps you ought to keep the lad with you, Swan. It’s quite clear that Zelena daren’t attack you, so it stands to reason that he’ll be safer with you.”

“And what about the rest of you?” Emma asks. “She might try again.”

“Doubt it,” Granny says. “She was after Henry, not us. We just got in the way.”

“Aye, she told us to stand aside,” Hook agrees. “We’ll be fine. It’s the boy we need to worry about.”

But Emma isn’t willing to accept that. And, much as she hates to admit it, the answer is obvious. “I’ll call Blue,” she says.

“I will not be chaperoned by a bloody fairy, Swan,” Hook says, his face a study in contempt.

“Not a chaperone,” she retorts. “Unless you were planning to—you know what, never mind.”

She fully expects some kind of salacious grin and encouragement to expand on what she thought he might be planning. Instead, his scowl deepens. “Call it whatever you wish. I’m not having it.”

“I thought you and Tinkerbell were... friends,” she says carefully.

“Aye, well, Tink is not your average fairy,” he says, a little defensively.

“Right,” Emma says, drawing out the word just enough for him to notice.

“I didn’t mean—” He breaks off, looking more annoyed than ever. “Bloody hell. Look, I’m sure between those flying monstrosities and Zelena having the Dark One in thrall, the ladies in question already have their hands full watching over the town.”

He has a point. The fairies are supposed to be watching out for Storybrooke’s residents, along with the dwarves.

Fairies and dwarves, on flying monkey patrol. Emma suppresses a sigh.

“Yeah, well, you’re part of the town,” she says. “I’ll call Tink, then. She might even have some advice about...” She waves a hand towards the pile of books and papers on the table. “That.”

“She came by earlier,” Belle pipes up. “To look at something for—” her eyes flick to Hook “—us.”

“Aye, and she couldn’t make head nor tail of it either,” Hook adds, still scowling.

“She didn’t really have time,” Belle says fairly. “And she was preoccupied with Blue’s orders. And... well. You weren’t exactly patient with her.”

Hook glares at Belle, opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut. The glare disappears, and he just looks tired. “Aye, you’re right. I—well.” He pauses. When he continues, his voice is a little stiff, like he’s forcing the words out. “Perhaps another try is in order. Along with an apology.”

A smile tugs at Belle’s lips, but she conquers it, and merely nods. “Maybe if we just ask for her insights, and go from there?”

For a moment, Hook keeps scowling, but then his expression clears—despite his best efforts, it seems—and he looks thoughtful. Almost cheerful, in fact. “I’ll defer to your judgement.”

“Okay,” Emma says, determined not to dwell on the fact that this is the first time she’s seen him look cheerful today. And that Belle is treating him with almost fond exasperation, and he actually seems to be getting along with her. And that there’s now going to be _another_ very pretty woman hanging out with him. All thanks to Emma herself, no less. “Good,” she adds. “Great.”

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. It shouldn’t matter. David hangs out with women that aren’t Snow all the time, and it doesn’t matter.

Not that that’s the same thing, or even similar, because it’s not _like_ that. She’s barely even friends with Hook. They’re just allies. Two people who work together and fight a lot and only really get along when they’re in trouble together.

Okay, he’s attractive, she can admit that. But being attracted to him is one thing. It doesn’t mean she’d ever act on it. She does still have a brain, even if it tends towards a very inconvenient track these days.

If she’d met him a few years ago, in some anonymous bar somewhere, she might have gone home with him for the night. But that’s not on the table, for many, many reasons.

For one thing, he wants more than that.

 _Wanted_ , she corrects herself. He doesn’t seem to want anything from her now, except to be left alone.

“Henry should stay with you, though,” Granny says, her eyes on Emma. “Just to be safe.”

“Maybe I should get a sword,” Henry pipes up. “Y’know. So I can fight them off.”

Everyone grins at him. David looks like he might burst with pride.

Emma can’t help smiling, too, but she knows her kid. She knows how far his sword lessons have come, and how very much he still has to learn. “You can have a sword when you can handle a sword,” she tells him.

“I can—”

“Without coming home full of bruises because you jabbed yourself in the shins,” she says.

Henry pouts at her. “Fine. How about a knife then? Grace has a knife.”

“Grace has a crazy dad,” Emma reminds him, but her heart’s not in this one. He’s eleven. _She_ had a knife when she was his age. And she can’t help but think that he’s not exactly a normal kid, and this is not a normal situation. If he’d had a weapon in Neverland...

“I don’t have anything like that for you, kid, but I’ll look into it,” she tells him. “We can stop by the store later, all right?”

Henry looks elated.

Hook shifts on his feet and clears his throat. “If you want—” he begins. Then he seems to give himself a mental shake, and flashes something like his usual confident smile, though his eyes lack most of their spark. “That is, I probably have a dagger to spare for the cause, if you like.”

Henry’s eyes light up so much that any refusal Emma might have thought of dies instantly. She’s already agreed that he can have a knife. She can’t turn down a pirate dagger on his behalf.

“Up to you,” she tells him, shrugging one shoulder.

“Really?” Henry grins widely as he turns to Hook. “ _Really?_ ”

Hook grins back at him and reaches to his side, fumbling for a moment with the assortment of leather belts and things he’s got strapped around himself. Then he holds out a small sheath, though when Henry reaches for it, he tugs it back out of reach. “A few conditions, lad. You can take a look now, but other than that, this only comes out when you mean to use it, or maintain it. No playing around. No taking risks. You never touch the blade, and you always keep it pointed away from you, even in the sheath. Agreed?”

A gentle kind of warmth tugs at Emma’s chest. She looks over to find David and Snow watching Hook and Henry with smiles on their faces.

Emma almost does a double-take, but no, she’s not seeing things. David is _smiling_.

So is she.

Meanwhile, Henry is nodding, a serious expression on his face. “No playing, no risks, no touching the blade, no waving it around unless I mean it. Deal.”

Hook nods back at him. “Very good. Then we have an accord.”

He hands over the sheath. Henry grabs it and pulls the blade free. It’s a small dagger with a wickedly-pointed blade and an ornate hilt. “Wow. This is so cool.”

Emma clears her throat pointedly.

Henry hurries to add, “Thanks, Killian.”

She swears she sees something like actual amusement dancing in Hook’s tired eyes as he winks at the boy. “You’re quite welcome. Just put it to good use.”

Emma is about to add her own thanks, but her phone rings again, and she hurries to answer. “Swan.”

“Get over here,” comes Regina’s impatient voice. “Someone _was_ in my office. I want to know how the hell she got in here.”

“Be right there.” Emma huffs as she hangs up and turns to her parents. “She did break in. I’ve gotta go over there, check it out.”

“We’ll come with you,” Snow says at once. “Maybe I can find a clue where she came from, or where she went.”

Emma nods. “Right. Come on, kid, you can get a look at the boring side of police work.”

“It won’t be boring,” Henry proclaims. “Will you take fingerprints and all that stuff?”

Emma exchanges a look with David, trying not to smile. “I’m not a forensics expert, I’m a sheriff.”

“Is that who does the fingerprints?” Henry asks. “Forensic people?”

“It’s called forensics, and it’s all pretty complicated,” she tells him. “We don’t have most of the equipment, and I, uh, I’m not sure it really applies when you’re dealing with fairytale characters.”

“Fairytale characters have fingerprints,” Henry says reasonably.

Beside him, Hook raises an eyebrow, and his left arm. “I beg to differ.”

Henry’s eyes widen a little, his mouth open, like he’s just discovered how to get a lifetime supply of fresh muffins. “You’d get away with _so_ much stuff.”

“And be super easy to identify,” Emma points out.

A provocative gleam lights Hook’s eyes for a fraction of a second, as if he’s thinking of a comment about not needing the hook to make an impression, but it dies just as quickly. His smile, when it comes, is forced.

“Aye, that’s rather a downside,” he says, with a short nod at Emma. “Overall, not to be recommended, lad. Stick with the dagger.”

Henry grins at him again, patting his coat where he’s stowed the weapon out of sight. “You bet.”

“Okay, come on.” Emma ushers Henry out of the room ahead of her. She doesn’t look at Hook again, doesn’t say goodbye, swallows back a comment about how she’d better not have to come and save him again. She catches Belle’s eye as she goes, and nods. “Be careful.”

Belle smiles. “You, too.”

 

*  *  *

 

Regina is waiting for them outside her office, pacing up and down and looking like she might explode if she stops.

“Finally,” she snaps as Emma hurries up to her. Then her eyes widen as she spots Henry at Emma’s side, and Snow and David right behind them. “What the—I said there was a break-in, and you turn it into a family outing? Did you bring a picnic, too?”

“I can help!” Henry says earnestly. Emma is glad that the dagger, at least, is tucked under his coat, out of sight.

“We thought it’s safest if he stays with me—with us, for now,” she tells Regina.

Regina throws up her hands, but she doesn’t look all that annoyed anymore. The one thing that never fails to mollify her is the prospect of spending a little more time with Henry. “Fine.”

“So what happened?” Emma asks, just as glad to get them onto a different subject.

“I don’t know.” The annoyance is back on Regina’s face as she gestures towards her office door. “When I got here, all I saw was a puff of green smoke before she vanished. _Cackling_ ,” she adds contemptuously.

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Emma mutters.

 “Did she take anything?” Snow asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed, but I didn’t want to do anything before you guys got here,” Regina says, almost grudgingly. “I thought I’d check it with magic, and you can do your tracking thing, and Emma and David can do whatever the police does in cases like this.”

Emma imagines that if Regina were to talk about peasants and what they did, she would use this exact tone of voice. She wrestles back her snark, and reminds herself that Regina called her, and waited for them. That would have been unthinkable only a few months ago.

Progress, of a sort.

“Right,” Emma says, glancing up at David. “Let’s take a look.”

Regina’s office looks the same as always, not so much as a pen out of place. Emma sets to work sweeping it, careful not to disturb anything, checking for fallen papers, half-closed drawers, anything at all.

“So,” Snow says after a moment. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but... are we sure Hook’s not involved in all this?”

Emma and David look up sharply from where they’re crouching beside one of the cabinets.

“What?” David asks.

“Just a feeling,” Snow says, with an apologetic look at Emma. “He could barely look you in the eye, and he seemed... tense. Didn’t he?”

“So you think he’s working with _Zelena_?” Emma demands. “Really?”

“Not _working with her_ ,” Snow says hurriedly. “Of course not. But... I just mean, something’s up with him.”

David rocks back on his heels before pushing to his feet, and scoffs. “Yeah, he didn’t make any inappropriate comments. Maybe he’s finally learned some manners.”

There’s something icy and hard lodged in Emma’s chest, making it difficult to speak. Not that she can think of anything to say. He didn’t just not make any inappropriate comments, he actively avoided the entire subject. And her.

He’s given up. He’s over it. And apparently, no longer interested in so much as a friendly hello.

She glares at the cabinet, then stands up and turns her attention to Regina’s desk.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself, almost wrenching one of Regina’s drawers out of the desk. It was never going to happen anyway.

“Emma, I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave my desk in one piece,” Regina snaps as Emma slams the drawer shut again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma snaps back. But she takes more care with the next one. If she keeps this up, her mother is going to ask her what’s wrong, and then Emma will either have to lie, or confide that she’s upset because Killian Jones wouldn’t flirt with her.

Nope. That’s _not_ happening.

And she’s not upset, anyway. If he’s done with her, then she’s definitely not going to waste any more energy on worrying about him.

 “There’s nothing,” Regina says, more annoyed than ever as she looks over at Emma and David. “She didn’t take anything. How the hell did she get in?”

“She broke past the wards in Granny’s—”

Regina shakes her head. “I sealed my office with a blood lock. No one should be able to get past that.”

“Not even Rumplestiltskin?” Snow asks.

“Why do you think I used it?” Regina asks, snapping a little again. “Rumple’s not a blood relative. I don’t have any blood relatives, not anymore.”

 _Thanks to you._ She doesn’t say it, but Snow flinches anyway.

“Well, Zelena clearly figured out a way around it,” Emma hurries to point out, to get Regina back to the subject of the person she’s _supposed_ to hate right now.

“That’s impossible.” Regina shakes her head. “And I don’t mean it’s hard. I mean it’s impossible. Unless she’s got some kind of magic I’ve never even heard of...”

“Is _that_ possible?” David asks.

“Theoretically,” Regina says, sounding like the word is being dragged from her. “She got to this realm somehow, too, and we have no idea how. This witch seems to know a lot of unpleasant tricks.”

“We should ask Belle,” David says. “They’ve been looking through all those books, maybe they came across something that’d explain it.”

Emma stifles the urge to exclaim “not it”. The last thing she wants is to go and visit Hook and his... research harem.

The minute _that_ thought occurs to her, she gives herself a mental kick. It’s petty, and totally unfair. She likes Belle. And Ruby, too, and even Tink has been perfectly nice to her. They deserve better from her.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter who Hook is spending time with. He clearly doesn’t want to spend time with her. And that’s fine. That’s what she wanted. She’s certainly rebuffed him often enough. Maybe he just finally got the message.

 _When I win your heart—and I_ will _win it..._

So much for that, Emma thinks savagely, and abandons her scrutiny of Regina’s desk. The last thing she wants to do right now is examine every inch of Regina’s ridiculously expansive, fancy office in careful detail. Who cares about clues, anyway? It’s not like it’ll lead anywhere. None of it ever leads anywhere.

Killian Jones is a pirate, and a scoundrel, and a liar. It’s just as well that she never put any store in his words. She’s had enough pretty words to last her a lifetime, enough broken promises, enough of men saying they care only to abandon ship the minute the going gets a bit rough.

Enough of not being enough.

 “Hey,” Snow says softly, and Emma is surprised to find her standing next to her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emma snaps, and regrets it immediately when she sees the soft light in her mother’s eyes dim just a little.

“Clearly,” she says, a slight crease between her brows.

Emma swallows down a surge of guilt. It’s not Snow’s fault that this has been a complete crapfest of a day.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just... I’m just worried.”

Understanding softens Snow’s eyes again. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out, you know.”

Emma presses her lips together. “Yeah.”

“It’s dark already,” Snow says. “We should go home, pick this up again tomorrow.”

 _Get some rest._ Emma sees it in her face, even if she doesn’t say it, and she knows what’s going to happen. They’ll go home, and David will make hot chocolate and tell her to sit down and relax while he makes dinner, and Snow will do that silent-support thing she does, and Emma will want to scream at them both, why, why, _why_? Why do they bother? Why are they so nice?

When will they give it up as a lost cause?

Just like that, her throat and chest are full of ice again. She clears her throat and glowers at the floor of Regina’s office. It’s spotless and neat, as if nothing happened. Emma hates it. She wants to throw the elegant vase standing on the desk and shatter it on the impeccable tiles.

“Fine,” she says. “But I think we’re wasting our time here. She didn’t take anything, and she didn’t leave any clues, either. Maybe she just did it to prove she could.”

“That makes no sense,” Regina says.

“People don’t always make sense,” Emma retorts.

Regina arches her eyebrows. “Clearly.”

“Let’s just go home,” David says, stepping between Regina and Emma and smiling at the latter. “Come on.”

When they get back to the loft, David heads straight for the kitchen nook, just as Emma predicted.

She shrugs out of her jacket and joins him, glances at the vegetables he’s taking out of the fridge, and takes a knife from the block. When he looks at her, startled, she shrugs. “Thought I’d give you a hand.”

He shakes his head at once. “It’s okay, you’ve got enough to—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t burn anything,” Emma says, acting as if she knows that David’s protestations are due to worry about her lack of culinary skills.

He smiles, crooked and almost admonishing. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I can do that, Emma,” Snow adds, gesturing at the knife, with far too much softness in her smile.

“I know, but...” She shrugs again, trying to think of words. Then she indicates the vegetables. “I just kinda feel like stabbing something, you know?”

Snow and David both laugh. Snow lifts her hands, and turns away to hang up Emma’s coat, still smiling. David’s hand twitches, like Emma’s does when she’s stopping herself from ruffling Henry’s hair. “Okay, you’re on.”

It’s been a hell of a day. But dinner, at least, turns out pretty decent.


	14. Chapter 14

Emma gets up early the next day, and drives out to the nunnery to talk to Blue and the others about protective measures.

“She got past a blood lock?” Blue asks, eyes wide. “That’s impossible.”

“That’s what Regina said. But she was definitely in there.”

Blue shakes her head. “Regina must have made a mistake, then. Sealing things with magic is always tricky, it’s easy to leave gaps.”

It’s not a lie, but the words feel strange to Emma anyway. Out of place, somehow.

But Blue is a fairy. She’s always been a bit weird. Emma makes a face. “Yeah, well I’m _not_ telling her that.”

Blue smiles her soft, kindly smile that’s far too understanding. “No, that’s probably not a good idea.” Her expression turns a little rigid, almost haunted, as she adds, “Regina’s never been good with criticism.”

“No kidding,” Emma mutters. “Well, look, just be careful, okay? Don’t underestimate Zelena. We still don’t know what she’s up to, but she’s clearly pretty powerful.”

“Clearly,” Blue agrees, her expression thoughtful now. Emma catches a speculative glint in her eyes before she nods. “We’ll figure out a way to stop her, don’t worry.”

Emma nods back. “I know.”

Blue tilts her head a little and smiles again. “How’s your magic coming?”

“Uh,” Emma says. “Yeah. You know. I’m getting there.”

She’s not sure why she doesn’t want to tell Blue the details of her rather spotty successes to date. Maybe it’s just because she’s here, surrounded by women for whom magic comes as naturally as breathing.

“Don’t let Regina push you too hard,” Blue says gently. “There’s no way you can learn everything she can do within a few weeks. Regina was raised to it, you know, she was surrounded by it all her life. Your life...” Blue’s smile turns sad. “Well, it’s been very different.”

Emma feels her insides twist. Blue means well, she reminds herself.

But she can’t help wondering if maybe this was why Blue refused to teach her. Because she knew that Emma is a difficult student, with little prospect of any real success.

“Yeah,” Emma says, struggling to keep any note of defiance out of her voice. “Well. Like I said, I... I’ll get there.”

“Of course you will,” Blue agrees, a little too hurriedly, and smiles her encouragement. “Of course you will.”

Emma takes her leave after that, with a final reminder to be careful and to call her if anything happens.

Then she swings by the town line, to check in with Leroy and his team. Leroy is a joy as always, immediately presenting her with a list of three problems and four demands. Emma placates him as best she can, and makes a mental note to try and send Snow next time.

By the time she gets back to the sheriff station, she’s ready to throw things again. David is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a note on her desk, along with a cup of coffee.

_Out hunting with Snow, back before dark. Don’t work too hard. - D_

Emma picks up the coffee. It’s cold.

Before she can decide what to tackle next, the phone rings.

“Sheriff, they’re here!” the woman at the other end hisses. “Flying monkeys. Right outside the... outside the house. In the trees. I don’t know—”

“Where?” Emma demands, scrambling for a piece of paper and a pen. “What’s your address?”

The woman recites it, her voice low and shaking, barely under control. Emma tells her to stay away from the windows and grab a weapon if she has one, and runs out of the station. On the way to the car, she calls Leroy, to ask if anyone’s in the vicinity.

“Me and Sneezy are closest,” he growls. “We’ll meet you there.”

Emma reaches the house first. She can see trees from the car, but there’s no sign of any monkeys.

She pulls out her gun as she slips out of the car, keeping a wary eye on the sky. The entire street is deserted, though whether that’s due to the weather or the warning they’ve issued, she doesn’t know.

She knocks on the door. There’s a crash, some fumbling, and then it opens to reveal an older woman who reminds Emma of a bird.

“Oh thank god,” she breathes. She looks terrified. “What are they doing here?”

“Where are they?” Emma asks.

“In the back yard,” the woman says, beckoning Emma over to the kitchen window. “Over there, see?”

Emma takes a careful look through the window—and at the sight before her, the tension inside of her simply falls away. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself on the windowsill, trying to cling onto her patience.

Leroy and Sneezy arrive just then, piling out of the car. “Well?” Leroy growls as he barges into the house and strides over to Emma. “Where are they?”

Emma sighs, and points out at the trees.

Leroy squints. “Those’re seagulls.”

“Yes,” Emma says heavily. “Yes, they are.”

The woman protests that they looked like monkeys from a distance. Emma leaves her to argue with Leroy, partly because she doesn’t have the energy to persuade Leroy to stop yelling, and partly because she thinks the woman rather deserves a lecture on not wasting the sheriff’s time with seagulls.

She’s barely back in the car when the next call comes in, from a man who asks her if she’s patrolled the docks yet today.

“Uh, no,” she says, wondering where this is going.

“We’ve been told to stay away,” he explains, “but see, I’m worried about my boat, I’d just feel better if someone went by to check on it.”

“I don’t know anything about boats,” Emma says. “I wouldn’t know—”

“Just to make sure it’s still there,” the man says hurriedly. “It’s just, well, there is a pirate in town, and the docks are deserted—”

Emma’s heart somehow manages to skip a beat even while it sinks. “Hook’s already got a ship. He’s not going to steal yours.”

“You sure about that?” the man demands.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Emma says, fighting to hold onto some shred of patience. “He—” She cuts herself off, realising that telling the man that Hook is helping her won’t do her any favours here. “What would a pirate even want with a fishing boat?”

“You never know,” the man says.

Emma has no reply to that. She casts her eyes skyward, finds nothing but the slightly grubby interior of her car there, and sighs. “All right, look, I can swing by the docks in a few minutes. Which boat is yours?”

The man describes it to her. Emma pretends to take notes. Then she reassures him that she’ll text him with an update as soon as she knows for sure, and hangs up.

She doesn’t drive by the docks. She knows better than to venture outside the town on her own, and she’s not about to waste her time on the trip when she already knows what she’ll find. Storybrooke’s fishing boats are perfectly safe from Hook.

Emma growls and drums her hand against the steering wheel as she drives back to the station. _Seagulls and pirates_ , she thinks savagely. Of all the things to worry about right now...

By the time she gets back to the station, her stomach is growling, and she’s actually looking forward to her magic lesson with Regina after lunch. At least she won’t have to deal with any more of _this_.

She fires off a quick message to the fisherman, telling him that the docks are quiet and his boat is fine. Then she leaves the station, slams the door shut behind her, locks it, and heads to Granny’s.

Maybe Neal is right, she thinks savagely as she strides up the path towards the diner. Maybe she should move back to Boston, or to New York. Life was definitely a lot simpler there. A lot less infuriating.

A lot less interesting.

She walks through the door, and right into Neal.

“Whoah!” He grabs her arm to steady her, face stretching into a smile. “You okay?”

Behind him, Emma can see Hook, leaning against the counter and talking to Ruby.

“I’m fine,” Emma growls, wrenching her arm away.

“O _kay_ ,” he says, taking a step back. “Sorry.”

His tone is just petulant enough to grind on her nerves that little bit more. People around them are looking; the diner is full with the lunchtime crowd, though it seems a little less busy than usual.

_Flying monkeys_ , Emma thinks.

With an effort, she wrestles back another withering comment, and shakes her head. “No, my fault. Sorry.”

His smile is back. “Crazy day?” he offers.

At the counter, Ruby hands Hook a plate with a burger and fries. To Emma’s amazement, he turns and delivers it to an elderly lady at a nearby table. He still looks tired and drawn, his shoulders hunched, his eyes shadowed, and he’s moving with less flair than usual. Nevertheless, he deposits the plate with a flourish and a bow that has the woman beaming at him before she tucks in.

Emma is sorely tempted to take a picture of him and text it to the guy who’s worried about his boat. That’s the scourge of the seven seas, right there. He’s probably planning a fishing boat stealing spree right now, the sneaky bastard.

She blows out a breath, orders the sarcastic voice in her head to shut up, and drags her attention back to Neal. “You could say that.”

He gives her a slanted sort of look, head bent a little. “Let me buy you lunch?”

“No, really, it’s—” She manages an apologetic smile, her mind whirring, looking for an excuse. She doesn’t need this right now. She can barely think straight as it is, never mind navigate the minefield of wrong impressions that is every one of these conversations with Neal. “I really just want to pick something up and get back to the office.”

“Well, I could—”

“Emma!” Granny has made her way to the edge of the counter, a smile on her face. “Come to pick up your lunch? Your dad paid for it earlier, I was just about to send Ruby over to the station.”

“Uh, right,” Emma says, relieved despite her confusion. David pre-booked her lunch? He never does that. She didn’t know Granny even offered that.

“Okay,” Neal says, and now his smile looks a little forced. “Well, I’ll uh, see you around.”

He’s gone before she can remember to ask him what he’s even doing these days, whether maybe he’d be up for helping her at the station or with patrolling later.

Oh, well.

“Sorry,” Granny tells her in a low voice as Emma walks up to the counter. “But you looked like you could use a life line.”

Emma stares at her. It takes a moment for the penny to drop. “Oh. _Oh._ Right. Thank you.”

“Just watching out for my girl,” Granny says gruffly, and that makes Emma want to turn on her heel and run, but before she can really begin to feel embarrassed, Granny sweeps past the moment with, “Now, what’ll it be? The usual?”

“Sure,” Emma says. “And, uh, a coffee. To go. Please.”

“Grilled cheese and a side of onion rings!” Granny calls towards the kitchen. “And Ruby, a coffee for Emma—and don’t let me catch you getting Killian to do it for you.”

Hook is leaning against the counter again, his stint as waiter apparently over. Ruby shrugs, unrepentant. “Hey, he volunteered.”

“I’m sure he did.” Granny shakes her head and turns her attention to another customer who has just moved up beside Emma. Emma sidles along the counter a little, to make room.

She glances over at Ruby and Hook. It’s as good a time as any to ask them about breaking blood locks. Between the noise from the kitchen, Granny’s bellowed orders, and the conversation of the other diners, they won’t be overheard.

Mind made up, she takes another two steps.

Ruby notices her, and grins. “Hey Emma!”

Hook finally looks at her. For the briefest moment, she swears that his mouth twitches, like he’s about to smile. But all he does is nod at her. “Swan.”

“Hey.” Emma presses her hand against her thigh to stop it jumping to her hair, or fiddling with the zipper of her coat, and clears her throat. “Is Belle around?”

“Back in the room, waiting for her lunch,” Ruby says. “She wanted to keep working. Why?”

“Just, something came up yesterday and we—I was hoping you guys might be able to look into it. I know you’re already looking for tracking spells and stuff, but...” She trails off.

“To be honest,” Hook says, “we haven’t had much luck with any of it, so far. Assuming, of course, that anything involving hearts or a child’s innocence or similar devilry is not an option.”

Emma’s mouth drops open, and she glances at Ruby, who shrugs as if to say, _he’s not kidding._

“Seriously?”

Hook lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m afraid so.”

“Right. Dark One. I don’t know what I expected.” Emma takes a deep breath. “Okay. Do you think... have either of you come across anything about blood locks?”

“Not me,” Ruby says at once, lifting her hands. “He’s the nerd.”

Hook shoots her a look, like he still doesn’t know what the word means and is getting annoyed about it. Emma tries hard not to smile as he turns back to her. “I don’t recall seeing anything, no. I’ll ask Belle, shall I? What are you looking for?”

Emma glances around. Then she leans a little closer. Hook copies her, but he abandons the movement halfway through, as if he just realised what he’s doing.

She almost rolls her eyes at him. It’s not like she’s contagious. Or invading his space purely to be annoying—that’s _his_ thing.

“Regina put a blood lock on her office, and it’s supposed to be unbreakable,” Emma says, lowering her voice. “But Zelena broke it.”

“Ah.” Hook’s voice drops, too, a low rumble that has her fighting not to lean a little closer still. His brows are slightly furrowed as he considers the problem, the gears turning behind those blue eyes, and it’s so typical of the man that he’s more handsome than ever when he’s not trying to be. “So either it’s _not_ unbreakable, or...”

“Or Zelena’s got powers that Regina’s never heard of,” Emma finishes, hand going to the zipper of her coat again. The diner is far too warm for winter coats. But she resists the urge to tug the zipper down, brushing her hair back instead. “Yeah. And I don’t like _that_ thought at all.”

His eyes follow the motion of her hand, and his own movements are a little jerky as he shakes his head. “Nor do I. That wouldn’t bode well for us.”

Why does he always have to talk like he stepped out of a Jane Austen novel? Emma swallows. “Right.”

“What’re you two whispering about?” Ruby asks, a suggestive smirk on her face as she sets a paper cup down in front of Emma. “Here’s your coffee. You sure you want it to go?” She casts a significant look at Hook, who immediately leans back away from Emma, an almost guilty expression flitting across his face.

“Yes,” Emma says firmly.

“She was just requesting that we do some more research,” Hook adds, in a “this is definitely just business” tone of voice.

Ruby raises two perfectly-shaped eyebrows at him. “Oh, _aye_?”

“Aye,” he growls.

Ruby smirks again. Emma’s teeth seem to be stuck together, and her hands keep trying to curl into fists.

Granny bustles up with a paper bag in her hand. “Here. On the house.”

“No, I’ll pay—” Emma starts, but Granny jabs a finger at her so fervently that Emma flinches back.

“On. The house,” she repeats. “You’ve got enough to worry about.”

“Take it,” Ruby warns her. “She’s not gonna give in, and you deserve it. You look stressed.”

“Thanks,” Emma grinds out. Nice to know that the hell of a day she’s been having seems to be showing on her face. Lovely.

“Maybe you should take a few hours off, Killian,” Ruby suggests. “Help her out.”

There’s something in her voice as she says it, and Emma has to fight to keep from glaring at her. What is that about? Is Ruby doing it on purpose, making sure that Hook’s flirting-with-Emma days are over? Is she trying to rub it in, or prove a point? Emma has never been very good at this kind of thing, the gossiping and the snide hints and the loaded questions that other girls began to engage in during their teens.

 “I’m afraid I can’t,” Hook says, too quickly. “I should get back to those books. Although, of course,” he adds with another nod at Emma, “if there’s an emergency, I’m a phone call away.”

Another thought occurs to her—is _he_ doing it on purpose? Trying to play hard to get, or something? Hoping she’ll come running after him if he acts like he doesn’t care?

_Never._

“Right,” Emma says stiffly, swearing right there and then that if there’s an emergency, she will exhaust her entire contacts list before calling him.

Ruby huffs out a sigh, and gives Emma a commiserating look—at least, that’s what it looks like. “Bet this wasn’t what you had in mind when you took the badge, huh?”

“Not exactly, no,” Emma says, and then, just like that, she’s had enough. They can play their stupid games, have their little chats, whatever. Two can play that game. “Maybe I really should move to New York.”

The words are out before she can even think about them, and they surprise her as much as they seem to surprise Ruby.

“New York?” Ruby echoes. “What? Why?”

Emma shrugs with all the nonchalance she can muster. In for an inch, in for a mile. “Neal suggested it, and I’ve been thinking about it. Y’know. A normal life.”

“New York?” Hook says. He sounds, and looks, like he’s just been clubbed over the head. “That horrible cacophony of a city?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Emma says, taking a savage pleasure in the look on his face.

“You’d just leave?”

“Yeah,” she says, with more force than she means. “Maybe I would.”

She doesn’t know what reaction she expected, but he just looks at her, those damn eyes that see too much boring into her, assessing her, as if he’s trying to look inside her head.

Nope, not happening. She is not going to be an open book for him today. She snatches up her food and the coffee. “I gotta get back to the station. See you.”

“Bye!” Ruby calls, still sounding perplexed.

Hook says nothing at all.

Which is fine, Emma thinks as she heads to the door. Just fine. At least now she knows where she stands.

 

*  *  *

 

Leaving. Killian is trying to wrap his head around the concept, even as Emma stalks across the diner towards the exit. The bell jangles as she wrenches the door open.

_Leaving?_

The world narrows to a crystal clarity as something dark and sharp and forceful boils up inside him. If it were a phrase, it would be _hell no_.

He’s hurrying after her before he can form another coherent thought. “Swan!”

She’s already outside the diner, but she stops, pivoting on her heel to look back at him. She looks windswept and angry, the hood of her coat askew. There’s a pine twig caught in her hair. He’s spent the past ten minutes resisting the urge to extricate it. “What?” she demands.

Someone else left the diner just behind him; he’s vaguely aware of the guy walking past him, but he doesn’t pay attention. He’s focused on Emma. “You can’t seriously be entertaining the idea of leaving.”

“Can’t I?” She spreads her arms as the man passes her, too, almost hitting him. “Look around. I’m surrounded by fairytale characters and flying monkeys, and the Wicked Witch came after my kid! That never happens in New York!”

“So you’d leave everyone else here to their fate?” he demands. “You’re the only one who can defeat Zelena, and you know it!”

“Oh yeah?” Emma’s eyes are blazing. “You want to tell me how? Because I don’t have a clue!”

He hasn’t really met her gaze in days, but he hasn’t forgotten the way her eyes burn into his when she’s angry and he’s angry and the world narrows down to just that, just them. “We will figure it out,” he grinds out, every word clipped.

Her eyebrows rise. “Didn’t know you cared,” she says, shifting from hot to cold in an instant.

“I thought you _did_ ,” he counters. “I suppose we were both wrong.”

A woman walks up the path behind her, and Emma leans out of the way, but she doesn’t even spare a glance at the stranger, all her fury focused on Killian. Her voice cools several degrees more. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You tell me, you’re the one who’s talking about leaving!” He moves half a step to the right automatically as the woman passes him, too. “Don’t you care what happens here?”

“Is that all you’re worried about?” Emma demands. “ _What happens here?_ Why does it matter to you? _You_ were all set to leave a few days ago!”

“That was before I knew you were in danger!” he snaps.

“Oh, don’t act like you care about me!” she snaps back.

“Of course I bloody—” But he cuts himself off, because he doesn’t, he doesn’t, not in any way that matters. Not in any way that’s _good_.

Emma gives a short, humourless laugh. “Right. You ignore me for days, and now, suddenly, what? I say I’m leaving, and you’re worried I won’t kiss you goodbye?”

The word goes through him like ice, and he can’t think, he can barely breathe, can’t come up with a single response except to snarl, “I’d rather kiss a flying monkey!”

The look she shoots him is one of pure loathing. “Fine! If I see one, I’ll send it your way!”

The last is flung over her shoulder as she marches off down the path, her posture rigid, her fists clenched.

Killian can only watch her go, frozen to the spot. The diner bell jangles behind him, and two or three people walk past him, but he barely registers them. After a moment, he reaches up and scrubs a hand down his face.

Bloody hell.

“What was that about?” Ruby asks, bewildered, as Killian stomps back into the diner.

He glowers at her. “Nothing.”

“Hey!” Granny is giving him a narrow-eyed look from behind the counter, hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not playing hot and cold with Emma, are you?”

“I’m not playing anything,” Killian snarls.

It does nothing to alleviate Granny’s suspicion. “For the record,” she says. “You break that girl’s heart, you’ll have to answer to me.”

He’s in front of her within three steps, though she doesn’t so much as flinch. “I am not going to break her heart,” he hisses. “For one thing, she’s far too smart to allow it. And for another, like I said, I’ve given up my efforts.”

Granny huffs impatiently. “Yeah, right. Just make sure you don’t hurt her, is all.”

His jaw clenches so tight that it hurts. “Believe me, I’m trying not to.”

Her eyes narrow a little more and she tilts her head to the opposite side. He thinks she’s about to ask him what’s wrong, or if he’s okay. But: “She’s not gonna leave, you know.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, fine, it doesn’t matter,” Granny snaps. “I’m just saying. She’s not going anywhere. She won’t leave Henry, and Henry won’t leave Regina, and Regina won’t leave Storybrooke. End of story.”

Much as he hates to admit it, she has a point. One that didn’t occur to him before now, even though it really should have. He squirms a little, fighting back a wave of embarrassment.

“Then why would she say it?” Ruby asks, having overheard that last part and lounging against the counter beside Granny. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Oh, _I_ don’t know,” Granny says, with another look at Killian, before rolling her eyes. “Let me know if you need help figuring it out. But in the meantime...” She glares at him. “Chin up. No negative nancies in this house, got it?”

He can’t help feeling that this is a little unfair, but he also can’t help feeling a little better, despite everything. “Understood.”

“Right,” she says. “Now. Back to work.”

He looks at Ruby, who shrugs as if to say, _she’s the boss_.

They get back to work.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma’s stomach is twisting as she storms away from the diner. It takes her a moment to realise that she turned the wrong way once she got to the street; she’s currently walking away from where she left her car.

But there’s no way she’s turning around to march back the other way. Not with Hook watching.

“Damn it,” she grinds out. “God-damn stupid son of a _bitch_...”

She takes the long way around, cutting through a side lane and turning into a less-used road that will take her back to where she parked her car. By the time she reaches it, her blood has stopped boiling, and to her horror, her eyes are stinging.

She flings herself behind the steering wheel. She is not going to cry over Killian Jones and his stupid, his goddamned...

She can’t even find the words.

Regina is waiting for her in her office this time. Henry is sprawled on the couch, reading his book, but he gives a cheerful wave when Emma walks in, wolfing down the last of her onion rings.

“What happened to you?” Regina asks, eyeing Emma critically.

Emma feels her eyes widen, startled. Usually, it’s Snow who notices these things. “Uh, nothing. I’m fine.”

Regina arches her eyebrows, haughty and effortlessly elegant as always. “You have a twig in your hair.”

Emma’s hand flies to her hair, combing through it—or rather, trying to. Her fingers get tangled in the blond curls and she feels like even more of a mess. This was how she walked into the diner, too, like some unrefined street kid.

Great. Just great.

“Never mind that,” Regina says impatiently. “Let’s just get on with this.”

The last thing Emma wants is to practice magic again, and she’s right to dread it; her first attempts are utterly abysmal.

Regina tuts impatiently when Emma fails to light the candle in front of her, never mind transporting it across the room. “You think too much,” she says. “You get too caught up in your own head.”

“Oh, give me a break, Regina,” Emma says tiredly. “I can’t just be as good as you within a few days, okay? Happy? Even Blue said so.”

Regina glowers at her. “Blue? What’d she say?”

“That you were raised with magic, and I wasn’t, and there’s no way I can learn everything you can do within a few weeks. Or even years, probably,” she adds.

“Then she doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Regina snaps. “It took me years to learn to light a damn candle. Come on. I know you can do it. You know you can do it. Stop letting your head tell you otherwise and get on with it.”

Emma isn’t sure what surprises her more: Regina admitting her own failure, or Regina doling out praise—heavily veiled, but praise all the same.

Or maybe it’s the fact that, somewhere deep down, it makes her feel a little better.

 

*  *  *

 

“Blood magic,” Belle echoes, when Killian passes along Emma’s request. “I have read about that. But from everything I know, a blood lock _is_ unbreakable. It’s not like other magic. It’s literally bound with your blood, it’s like... like how some people are just immune to certain illnesses because of their genetic make-up.”

Killian only gives her a quizzical look. She shakes her head impatiently. “This-realm stuff. Never mind. The point is, with the way the magic works, it’s impossible to get past.”

“You’re right about that,” Tink says. She’s lounging back in the comfiest arm chair, her feet propped up on one arm rest, her back against the other, her plate balanced on her stomach. “Even fairies can’t break a blood lock.”

“Perhaps she didn’t, then. Perhaps she got _around_ it somehow.” He purses his lips. “In any case, determining her powers is the first step to defeating her, so we’d best look into it.”

Belle sighs. “Yeah, I guess so.” She takes another bite of the burger that Ruby brought her, and turns back to her books.

There is quite a lot of information about blood magic in Rumplestiltskin’s books, at least. Killian and Belle end up working together, exchanging comments and theories as they peruse the books, reading pertinent information out loud.

After a while, Belle gives him a cautious sort of look. “Killian... what if we’re going about this the wrong way?”

“Meaning?”

“There’s one possibility we haven’t considered at all,” Belle says. “You said Zelena might have got around the blood lock. Which, she could, if she was related to Regina.”

“Related?” Killian echoes. “That seems rather unlikely.”

“I don’t know,” Ruby says slowly. “I mean, until Neal showed up, no one had any idea that Henry’s related to Rumplestiltskin. No one saw that coming, either.”

“Everyone in this town is related,” Tink says with a sigh. “But it’s relatively easy for a guy to, well, not know he’s a father. Right?”

She’s looking at Killian. He feels his eyebrows shoot upwards. “I do hope you’re not insinuating anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I’m just saying, it happens.”

“Aye.” He’s always been careful in that regard, but he knows perfectly well that not everyone is. Especially sailors, it has to be said. It used to drive Liam crazy.

“Right,” Tink says, with a nod. “But a sibling? People usually know about those. And Cora was the one with magic, as far as I know, so if Regina and Zelena are related, chances are it’s through her. In which case... she must have known, at least.”

“Maybe, but—” Belle gasps.

“What?” Killian asks, his hand going to his sword.

“Hold on.” Belle seizes one of the journals on the table and begins leafing through it feverishly. Killian looks over at Ruby, who looks just as lost as he feels.

“I just remembered,” Belle mutters, still searching through the journal. “I noticed this earlier, but I didn’t really think about it because it didn’t matter... ah, here it is.”

“What?” he asks, moving to join her as she beckons him to look. She’s perched in an arm chair, and he goes down on one knee beside her, eyes on the journal on the table.

“Here... see, Rumple had a few apprentices over the years, trying to find someone to cast the Dark Curse for him. There’s a mention here,” Belle jabs at the open page of the journal, “of _Cora’s daughter_ , only it doesn’t make sense time-wise if it’s Regina, because that year was a centenary of the Ogre Wars and Regina wouldn’t have been old enough then.”

“Maybe he was planning ahead,” Ruby says. “I’m pretty sure Regina’s an only child.”

“Yes, yes, but there’s another mention here... hold on...” Belle flips back to another page, her eyes alight with an almost feverish gleam. “Here, when he’s making notes about one of Regina’s failures, a comment about magic running stronger in the firstborn.”

A memory tickles at the back of Killian’s mind, and he digs around for one of the loose pieces of parchment he perused during a sleepless night. “And as I recall, there’s a veiled reference here to _Cora’s secret_...”

He holds it out to Belle, and she leans closer as he points to the right place. “I didn’t think much of it, Cora had many secrets.”

“Including another daughter?” Ruby sounds incredulous.

“Maybe.” Belle looks as excited as Killian has ever seen her. “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? She’d be able to get past any blood lock that lets Regina through. And it might even explain how she got here, or at least what she’s doing here, how she even knew to come here.”

“Aye.” Killian stares at the parchment before him. “I think we’d better ask Regina, hadn’t we?”

Ruby heaves a sigh. “Oh, she’s gonna _love_ this.”

 

*  *  *

 

Emma is still so on edge that the knock on the office door makes her jump.

“What now?” Regina says with a sigh, even as the door is pushed open and Belle emerges, an apologetic smile on her face.

Following behind her is the taller, dark figure of Hook. Emma’s heart pounds and trips as he enters the room. He looks over at her, and for a moment, their eyes meet. He holds her gaze, and her heart picks up the pace a little more, but she refuses to look away first.

His brow furrows a little, and he gives a small, distracted shake of his head and turns away to close the door.

“Hey!” Henry exclaims, emerging from behind the couch’s back rest and grinning at the newcomers.

“Hi, Henry,” Belle calls with a smile, and Hook snaps a casual salute.

“What’s going on?” Henry asks.

“We, well, we have a theory,” Belle says. “About the blood lock.”

“Oh?” Startled, Emma looks up at Regina. “Oh. Already?”

“Maybe,” Belle emphasises. She’s holding an old journal, and she looks nervous.

Henry is kneeling on the couch now, his arms folded on the back rest as he looks over at them all.

“Well?” Regina asks.

“Well,” Belle echoes, and gives herself a shake. “Well, I thought, what if it’s not as complicated as we think? A blood lock would still let any close relative through, so what if... what if Zelena is a relative? What if she’s your sister?”

Emma shoots a startled glance at Regina. Of all the things she might have expected, that wasn’t anywhere near the list.

“Sister?” Henry echoes, perking up. “You think—”

“I don’t have a sister,” Regina says impatiently. “ _That’s_ your big idea? We’re wasting time.”

“Not just a theory, your Majesty,” Hook says, taking a step forward as if to physically shield Belle from Regina’s disdain. “Take a look at this.”

They elaborate together, and it’s clear that they’ve talked this through, discussed the best phrasing to use to avoid riling Regina any more. Henry, Emma notices, looks thoroughly fascinated. He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, too, but she has a sneaking thought that he wants to avoid drawing attention to himself, for fear that Regina bans him from the proceedings.

“Okay, but I don’t have a sister,” Regina repeats, when they’re finished. “I’d know if I had a sister.”

“With all due respect, you wouldn’t necessarily,” Hook says. “I apologise for the reminder, but until quite recently, a lot of people around here were unaware that they were related.”

“It _would_ be the simplest explanation,” Emma says thoughtfully.

“There’s nothing simple about it!” Regina snaps.

“I just meant it makes more sense than Zelena being able to break unbreakable magic—”

“Because you’re an expert in magic now, since you’ve been doing it for five whole minutes?” Regina retorts. “If this nonsense makes sense to you, maybe you need your head examined!”

Hook glares at Regina. “She’s right.”

Regina glares back, furious. “Of course _you_ think so.”

Her implication is clear, and Emma bristles again. But Hook has never been particularly impressed by Regina’s disdain. “Aye, because _I’m_ not too blinded by my own wants to think straight.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Regina demands.

He doesn’t say it, but everything about his expression right then says that he’s glad she asked. There’s a fierce look in his eyes, his upper lip curling slightly. Emma imagines that this is what he looks like when he’s reprimanding one of his crew—or trying to intimidate someone into cutting a deal.

“I may not be an _expert in magic_ ,” he says, “but as far as I can tell, there are two possibilities. Either Zelena has powers that no one, including you, has ever heard of, which allow her to break through blood magic. Or you’re related, and she simply took advantage of that. Do you want to find and deal with the problem we have, or the one you happen to prefer?”

If looks could kill, Hook would be a smoking heap of ash on the carpet right now. “It works as a theory, but _I don’t have a sister_. I’d know. She would have been around—”

“She might be a half-sister,” Belle suggests.

“My father would never—” Regina breaks off.

“It says _Cora’s secret_ ,” Hook says, jabbing his hook towards the parchment Belle is holding.

“Do not talk about my mother,” Regina snarls at him, and snatches the parchment from him.

He lifts his arms in exaggerated defence, eyebrows rising towards his hairline, eyes widening dramatically. As he turns away from Regina, he catches Emma’s eye. She gives him a commiserating, exasperated smile before she can think about it.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny grin, and he rolls his eyes in wordless agreement.

“Okay,” Regina snaps, and Emma and Hook look away from each other, like kids caught passing notes by the teacher. “Everybody out.”

Emma frowns. “What?”

“I’m going to figure this out,” Regina says, her tone imperious. “You guys go back to Granny’s, or wherever, I really don’t care. You—” she glares at Emma “—watch Henry. _If_ you have go anywhere, take him with you.” She jabs a finger towards Hook, whose eyebrows shoot upwards again. “No one goes out alone, and Henry doesn’t count as a partner. Got it?”

It’s Emma’s turn to roll her eyes. As if she’s about to do anything reckless with her kid in tow. “Yeah, I got it. What’re you gonna—”

“I’ll be in touch,” Regina says. “Now _out_.”

They file out. Regina closes the door behind them and waves her hand over the glass panel, making it shimmer slightly. Then she vanishes in a cloud of purple smoke.

Hook heaves a sigh. “Always so dramatic.”

“She’s just upset,” Henry says. “I wonder if it’s true. Zelena’s not in my book, do you really think they could be sisters?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about your family tree, lad,” Hook says wryly, “it’s that you should never rule anything out.”

He doesn’t look at Emma as he says it. She clears her throat. “We should probably get back to Granny’s,” she says. “Come on. My car’s outside.”

 

*  *  *

 

They run into Snow and David outside, who were just on their way to check in with Emma. Emma gives them a quick run-down of Belle’s theory and Regina’s reaction.

Snow looks stunned. “Her _sister_? How could Cora have had another child?”

“I assure you, the mechanics are really quite simple,” Hook says, looking exasperated. Then he smirks. “Though I’d be happy to explain, if you need a reminder.”

“No, thank you,” David says firmly, shooting a glower at the pirate. “It just seems kinda far-fetched.”

“Regina thought so,” Emma says, determined not to think about Hook explaining the _mechanics_ in that damnable Jane-Austen way of his. “At first, anyway. But I think there might be something to it.”

“She did seem pretty upset,” Belle adds, looking apologetic again.

Snow nods slowly. “If you’re right about this, I can kind of see why.”

“Yeah, finding out you have an evil sibling isn’t exactly fun,” David adds. “Trust me, I know.”

Hook shoots him a surprised look. “You failed to mention that he was evil.”

“Well, not _evil_ ,” David qualifies, looking back at Hook with slightly narrowed eyes. “Just selfish, a liar, a thief... a womaniser, too. You know.”

Hook swallows, and he nods. “Ah.”

“Maybe you should talk to her,” Snow suggests. There’s a tiny frown on her face as she looks at her husband, like she’s trying to figure out what exactly he’s saying to Hook.

Emma knows how she feels.

David gives Snow an incredulous look. “Me? I’m pretty sure she’d slam the door in my face.”

“If not your face into the door,” Hook agrees. “It might be advisable to let her calm down.”

“I didn’t mean right now,” Snow says. “Maybe we can stop by on our way back from patrol. We’re taking your shift,” she adds to Emma.

Emma nods. “We were just heading back to Granny’s.”

“What about your magic?” Snow asks.

Emma shrugs. She already knows that she can’t practice her magic at Granny’s, surrounded by people. It’s bad enough to mess up in front of Regina, but she’s used to that. She really doesn’t want to show off her spectacular failures in front of Tinkerbell, or really, any of the others.

“You should take Henry back to the loft,” David says. “It’s warded, and it’s a lot quieter.”

“That’s—” Emma’s protest dies in her throat. It’s not a bad idea, come to think of it. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“And take Hook with you,” Snow adds.

Emma glances at Hook, to find him looking back at her with the same startled expression that she’s probably wearing.

“What?” David asks, even as Emma, feeling like a kid who’s been grounded, asks, “Why?”

“Just in case,” Snow says.

“But he’s—” David looks like he just swallowed something unpleasant.

“Good in a fight,” Snow suggests, firmly.

Hook clears his throat. “Perhaps we could ask Tink to join us.”

Emma raises her eyebrows at him. “To chaperone?” she asks, before she can stop herself.

“To help you,” he counters, a glower on his face. “As Tink is, by my reckoning, the closest we have to a magical expert, aside from Regina.”

“That’s a good idea,” David says quickly, and Emma gives in. There’s no way she can argue her case without making it look like she wants to be alone with Hook, which she doesn’t.

“Fine.”

She drives back to Granny’s, with Henry and Belle squeezed into the back seat and Hook riding shotgun. They exchange Belle for Tink and drive to the loft, and once again, Emma spares a thought for how utterly bizarre her life has become.

“I really don’t think I’ll be much help,” Tink says, for about the fifth time, when they’ve all trudged up into the loft and settled down in the living area. “I never learned magic like Regina did, and I’m pretty useless these days.”

“Stop that,” Hook tells her, giving her a stern look from where he’s leaning against the counter. “I told you. Don’t let that bloody fairy get in your head.”

She makes a face. “ _I’m_ a bloody fairy, thanks.”

He waves that away impatiently. “Blue, then. You _are_ helping, and you’ve got your damn wings, even if you can’t see them.”

“You don’t know that,” Tink tells him. “She took them.”

“Aye, by making you doubt yourself,” he says, sounding exasperated. He huffs out a breath, and leans back. “You know my views on the matter.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Views?” Emma asks, before she can think better of it.

Tink shrugs. “Hook’s convinced that Blue’s got some kind of agenda—“

“Not an agenda,” he says, annoyed. “I just happen to think that she’s not good for Tink’s self-confidence.”

“My self-confidence is fine,” Tink snaps.

“Oh? Then where’s the woman who held a knife to my throat? Where’s the fairy who mended the sails on the _Jolly Roger_? I know she’s in there,” he points a finger at her, “but I’d like to _see_ her again.”

Tink tries to glare at him, but she gives up after a moment, and a reluctant smile creeps across her face. “Yeah. Me too.”

He smiles back. “Then you will. Don’t listen to Blue. All right?”

“Yeah, whatever. I just don’t want to disappoint Emma.”

Startled, Emma shakes her head, her mind still on what she just witnessed. It certainly puts a lot of things into a very new perspective. “You won’t. And uh, for what it’s worth, I think he’s right.”

Tink’s eyebrows rise.

“About believing in yourself, I mean,” Emma goes on, despite the little lump of discomfort that’s intent on lodging somewhere in her throat.

“There,” Henry says, looking satisfied—and a little cheeky. “Emma just agreed with Hook for you. Anything’s possible now.”

Tink laughs. After a moment, so does Emma, more at the self-satisfied grin on Henry’s face than anything. Even Hook huffs out one slightly reluctant laugh.

Emma hates admitting it, but the insight into Tink’s insecurities makes her feel better. Not that she wants Tink to doubt herself or feel bad, but...

Well, on a purely selfish level, it’s nice to know she’s not the only one.

And Hook echoing Regina’s comments about Blue doesn’t hurt, either.

Still, Tink turns out to be right: she’s not much use as a teacher. Hook has brought a few books with him and sits at the kitchen table, engrossed in a leatherbound volume titled “ _Magickal Afflictions of the Minde”_. He never looks up, which is both convenient and annoying, because it means that Emma is free to look over at him all she likes, and that puts her self-restraint to the test in a whole new way.

Fortunately, she has a lot of self-restraint. She only looks over fourteen times in half an hour, and one of those times was because Henry was coming down the stairs and it was on her way, so to speak.

Pretty good going, really, all things considered.

They last another fifteen minutes, then Henry pipes up that he wants a snack and Emma makes pop tarts for everyone and learns that Hook has never had a pop tart before.

“What is it made of?” he asks, eyeing the snack suspiciously.

“I have no idea,” Emma says, before adding, “There’s an ingredients list on the box.”

She regrets it immediately as he seizes the box and frowns at the list. “I don’t know what half of these things are. Are you quite sure it’s safe for consumption?”

“They’re not the healthiest thing in the world, but they’re fine to eat,” Emma says. “We’ve got regulations, and—look, it’s fine. Trust me.”

She has never seen a man eat a pop tart with so much suspicion on his face.

Henry is restless, and Emma can’t blame him; with everything that’s going on lately, he hasn’t had much chance to be a kid. She tells him that he can play on the Xbox as long as he keeps the volume down, and is rewarded with a sunshine grin and a hug.

Tink, fascinated, joins him while Emma polishes off another pop tart and sneaks another look at Hook. He’s leaning against the counter again, still wearing his coat as if it’s armour, not meeting her eyes as he picks a crumb off his vest.

“Not so bad, right?” Emma ventures, waving her almost-eaten pop tart at him.

“A little sweet, perhaps,” he says. “But thank you.”

His words are as stiff as his posture, and he’s still not looking at her. She wants to shrug it off, and she would, if he didn’t look so miserable. It would be a lot easier to just be angry at him if he didn’t look so hurt. He’s doing a good job of hiding it, but he can’t disguise the dark shadows under his eyes, the paleness of his face, the lack of light in his eyes.

Emma can feel the wrongness between them, and she knows, in the instinctive way that she sometimes knows things in dreams, that Regina and her snide comments had a point. This is what’s interfering with her magic, whether she likes it or not.

“Hey Killian!” Henry shouts from the living room. “You want a go?”

Hook turns. Henry is waving the Xbox controller at him. Tink is sitting on the couch beside the boy, her eyes glued to the television, entranced by the game’s loading animation.

“Perhaps later,” Hook says with a small smile. “I still have some work to be done.”

Emma’s teeth grind together. She’s had enough—enough of being ignored, enough of wondering about the inner workings of Hook’s mind, enough of _this._

Either he’s going to give her some kind of answer, or she’s going to...

Well. She’ll figure something out.

“Okay. _Killian_?” she says.

The use of his name gets his attention, eyes snapping to hers.

She crosses her arms across her chest, refusing to back down, refusing to feel the connection as their eyes meet. “I need to talk to you.”

 

*  *  *

 

Killian’s heart is doing a complicated kind of evasive manoeuvre in his chest. All he can think to say is, “About what?”

“About—about _you_ ,” she says. “What’s going on?”

He’s already bracing himself for accusations and admonitions. He knows he’s been rude, and Emma is not someone to abide rudeness, at least not for long. In lieu of any kind of defence, he falls back on, “Pardon?”

“Oh, don’t,” she says impatiently. “What is _up_ with you? Do we have some kind of problem?”

“Of course not,” he says at once, the words coming out almost against his will. They do have a problem, a big one, but it isn’t her fault. It’s his problem to fix. Besides which, cursed or not, there’s no way he can mention the word “love” to her.

“Right.” She looks away, takes a deep breath, and meets his gaze again. “Here’s the thing. You are acting strange. I mean, I thought maybe you’d just—but you’re acting like I’ve got cooties or something.”

He has never heard of that word. “Cooties?”

“They’re like germs that—” Emma shakes her head, tossing her hair back. “Not important. I mean you’re acting like you hate... like you want nothing to do with me, and that’s... that’s fine, but...” She trails off, and Killian knows it’s not fine, not even close. She’s doing a good job of keeping the hurt off her face, but he can hear it in her voice, and most of all, he knows it’s there because of what she just said.

Emma Swan, calling him out on staying away from her.

The world feels like it’s trying to turn upside down.

“You’ve got it wrong, Swan,” he says weakly.

She fires up again immediately. “Do I? Then how come you can’t even look at me?”

He was prepared for other accusations—of weaselling out of patrol duty, perhaps, or of rudeness. He didn’t expect Emma to call him on _this._

He’s hurting her. This distance he’s been putting between them is hurting her. He thought it would only affect him. True, he’d been hoping that she might, in time, come to care for him; the spark of interest is there, he’s sure of that, but Emma is not a woman to follow her heart, or her desires. He’s always known that she’ll only care once she lets herself care.

He hadn’t realised that she’s already begun to.

“It’s not due to—it’s a long story,” he says.

She raises her chin. “Let me guess. One you won’t tell me. Everyone else, maybe, but not me.”

And he can see the hurt in her eyes now, too, the echo of every lie she’s ever been told. Every person who’s ever told her they care, only to shut her out and leave her alone.

It hits him with the force of a tidal wave: she thinks that he’s given up on her. That’s the reason for the looks she’s been slanting at him, the downturned corners of her mouth, that bleak undertone in her voice.

She thinks he’s given up on her, and she’s _upset_ about it.

Meaning that maybe, just maybe, she’s willing to give him a chance, after all.

At the very least, it means that her trust in and reliance on him were more personal than he realised, and his attempts at keeping his distance is breaking every implicit promise he ever made to her.

Zelena be damned. Everything be damned. He still doesn’t see any way to break this damnable curse, still feels nothing but shame and guilt at the fact that it was even possible, but that stupid spark of hope is back in his chest, and he’s _hurting_ her. Anything is preferable to that.

He needs to tell her.

“No, I—” It’s hard to find the words. “It isn’t that I want nothing to do with you. I do. Truly.” Those words come easily, and there are more of them, declarations and promises and far too much that he can’t say to her. “But I—I—”

The words won’t come. It takes him a moment to realise that they quite literally _won’t come_. He knows exactly what he wants to say, but the words get lodged in his throat, and it isn’t due to nerves.

“What?” she asks impatiently.

He takes a deep breath and looks away from her, frustration making his jaw clench. _Zelena wants to use me to hurt you. I’m a threat to your magic. I’m cursed._

No matter how he tries to phrase it, the words don’t make it out.

“Should I be doing a drum roll or something?” Emma says, clearly trying for a joke to lighten the mood.

He shakes his head, annoyance making his movements jerky. _I want to tell you, but I can’t._

His mind whirls. Clearly, Zelena has done something to prevent him from spilling the beans, which also explains the difficulty he had yesterday when he tried to talk about her motives. But he isn’t entirely mute, nor under her control. He just needs to choose some better words.

“First things first,” he says. “ _We_ do not have a problem. I apologise for my behaviour over the past few days, I didn’t realise it would... I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she says, predictably, despite all evidence to the contrary. “I’m just confused.”

“Understandably so,” he agrees quickly. “I’m sorry, love. Truly.”

She gives a little half-shrug, almost like she’s suppressing a shiver, uncomfortable as always with genuine declarations. “It’s fine.”

“The second thing,” he says, “is that...”

He can’t bloody say it. He can’t clue her in to what Zelena is doing. None of the things that come to mind make it past his throat.

“I just... need some time,” he manages at last.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up. “Time?” she echoes. “Wait a minute, whoah. I’m just trying to figure out if we—if you were mad at me about something, or—you were being kinda rude.”

“Aye, you’re right about that,” he says, not sure why she sounds so defensive again. “And I apologise.”

Emma is still looking at him with a strange caution in her face, but then she nods. “Okay. So we... we’re good? Right?”

“Aye, we’re good,” he agrees, and dares a smile.

She smiles back, a tiny quirk of her mouth. “Friends?”

He’s not quite sure what that means, either, but it seems to be an offer, from the way she’s holding out her hand. He takes it, feeling the usual warm tingle in his palm at her touch. “Friends,” he says softly.

He can do that. He can be friends with her, avoid hurting her or letting her down any more than he already has. All he _really_ has to do is avoid kissing her. Easy.

Forget good intentions, he thinks. This, _this_ is what the road to hell is paved with, soft words and lingering touches and an ache in his heart. Compromises with himself that he already knows for lies. Smiles disguising the poison on his lips.

Emma doesn’t let go immediately, and neither does he. She’s studying his face, and he’s not sure what she sees there, or what she’s thinking. She’s definitely thinking, though; he can tell by her slightly narrowed eyes, the thoughtful set of her brow.

Like she’s trying to hear the words he can’t say.

It’s hard, after all that, not to hope.

 

*  *  *

 

It takes Emma three tries to poof an orange from the counter over to the exact spot on the table she’d been aiming at. It takes her exactly one try to summon Hook’s book to her own hand and catch it in one fluid motion, as if she’s been doing this all her life.

She knows, then, that he was telling the truth. There’s a moment where he looks up at her, his expression turning from startled to an amused exasperation that doesn’t quite cover the admiration beneath as he pretends to scowl at her, when she just knows. _That_ is the truth, peeking out behind that weird taciturn facade he’s had going on the past few days. She’s still not sure what’s up with him—he’s not a man to get tongue-tied, and he’s not a man to be rude, either, and it’s wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —but at least she feels like she knows him again.

He demands the book back. She pretends to consider his request. He throws the orange at her.

She grins at him, and feels magic soar inside of her.


	15. Chapter 15

Killian’s exhaustion is such that he falls asleep moments after he hits the mattress. His dreams are dark and troubled, as they often are, and he wakes disoriented, a leaden feeling settling back over it.

The room feels quieter than usual, and there’s a different cast to the dawn light peeking past the curtains. _Snow_ , he thinks, and then: _I hope_.

But a careful glance past the curtains confirms it. It’s still half-dark, but less so than usual at this time; the trees outside are dusted with white, the street below just about covered.

Taking a deep breath, he turns away from the window, reprimanding himself for jumping at shadows. There are enough threats around without getting paranoid.

He pulls on a shirt and pants, grabs his sword, and makes his way down to the back yard. It’s freezing, but a few minutes of drills are enough to warm him up, the air steaming from his mouth.

When he’s done, he finds Granny standing at the open back door, a smirk on her face. “Good morning.”

He makes her a bow, sword flourish and all. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing? You’re gonna freeze your pirate jewels off.”

“I assure you, it takes more than a little snow to subdue any part of me,” he returns, swaggering over towards the door and trying to catch his breath. “What are _you_ doing? Appreciating the view?”

Her smirk becomes an unashamed grin. “Maybe. But you really shouldn’t be out here.”

“Needs must,” he counters. “If I’m to be any use—”

She gives him a narrow-eyed look that sees far too much. “For a guy who only cares about himself, you’re awfully worried about being _of use_.”

“With a sword,” he finishes, as if he _hasn’t_ been beating himself up over his lack of contribution to the cause lately. He can’t even remember when it became _his_ cause.

_When Zelena cursed you_ , the pirate in him insists.

_Liar_ , a deeper, older part of him counters. It sounds an awful lot like Liam.

“When a man has only his wits and his sword to rely on, it’s imperative to practice both,” he goes on, striving for nonchalance.

“Uh-huh.” From Granny’s expression, she doesn’t believe him. “Well, right now it’s _imperative_ to get out of this cold. Come on.”

He doesn’t argue. Now that he’s no longer moving, the cold is seeping back into his bones, and there’s a hot shower waiting for him upstairs. Truly one of the advantages of this realm, he has to admit, even though he’s too distracted to appreciate it much today. His mind feels stuck, circling along the same path over and over, with no way out. Worse, he feels trapped, his words no longer his own. Even during his days of indenture, he was always able to speak freely. Sometimes only a sullen mutter, but always _his_.

This is intolerable. He has to _do_ something.

He gives up on his shirt buttons halfway through, runs a hand through his damp hair to get it out of his face, shrugs into his vest, and goes down to breakfast.

Belle is already there, in a booth with a couple who have their backs to him, but whom he quickly identifies as Eric and Ariel. Belle looks up, says something to Ariel, and the other two half-turn to smile at him.

“Killian,” Belle calls. “Join us?”

He can’t quite hide his surprise. Until now, Belle has always avoided him at breakfast and other meal times; he’s counted it a victory that she no longer seems nervous to be alone in a room with him. _This_ is unexpected.

But he’s never been one to question an opportunity when it presents itself. The leaden feeling inside him lifts slightly as he joins Belle in the booth, and greets Eric and Ariel.

At least he’s managed to fix this somewhat.

The conversation turns to flying monkeys and the Wicked Witch, as it was bound to. He commiserates with Eric over being land-bound for the time being, and finds to his delight that Ariel is just as confused by Storybrooke’s contraptions as he is.

“My love,” Eric says with a fond smile, leaning over to nudge her shoulder. “I don’t think you need all of those.”

Ariel stops in the middle of pulling yet another paper napkin out of the dispenser, blushing. “Sorry. It’s just so _fun_.”

“I could use one,” Killian says, holding out his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

She beams at him, pulls out two more, and hands them over.

“I see how it is,” Eric says with a good-natured sigh. “That’s what I get for befriending pirates.”

“How _did_ that happen?” Belle asks.

“He tried to steal my boat,” Eric says, a gleam in his eyes.

“Slander!” Killian affects outrage. “I _liberated_ his boat from a thief.”

Belle laughs. It isn’t a sound he’s heard often, and he finds that it suits her. So he plays it up as he and Eric tell the story, and they draw more laughter from both Belle and Ariel—and Ruby, who displays her usual instinct for spotting entertainment and a chance to tease Killian from a mile away, and shows up with coffee refills at exactly the right time.

This, Killian reflects with no small amount of marvel, is what he gets for befriending royalty.

Perhaps not such a terrible idea, after all.

 

*  *  *

 

By the morning, Emma’s relief has faded back into disquiet, leaving only a faint embarrassment at having felt it in the first place. At caring enough to feel it in the first place.

She wakes before her alarm, to a strangely gentle mood in the loft. The noises from outside are muffled, the light filtering into the room subtly different.

When she pulls back the curtains, it’s to find an inch-thick layer of snow on the windowsill.

Henry makes plans for snowmen and snowball fights over breakfast, and Emma feels a pang at the thought that those are the things he should be doing. He should be able to go outside and just play in the snow, without fear of flying monsters and evil witches and who knows what else.

And she wants to be out there playing with him, not worrying about monsters and magic and... everything. A weird sense of foreboding has settled on her, like the snow on the windowsill, soft and quiet and almost weightless, but always there.

“The snow might help with tracking,” Snow says, looking at the snowflakes dancing past the window. “Maybe we’ll find something today.”

“Wish I could help,” Emma says, and means it. It’d be nice to have work to distract her. But she can’t; she has to watch Henry, and she’s not taking any chances.

“What are you gonna do?” Snow asked. “Are you going to Regina’s?”

Emma makes a face. She hasn’t even asked Regina about magic lessons, or anything else. “I don’t think I want to test her patience today.”

Snow looks sympathetic. She and David went to see Regina last night, before coming home, and given her reaction then, Emma can just about guess what kind of mood she’s likely to be in today.

To be fair, she didn’t slam the door in their faces, nor their faces into the door. She never opened the door at all. It just started raining right above the front step, and Snow and David took the hint.

“We’ll head to Granny’s,” Emma goes on. “I want to talk to the others, see if we can come up with something else to try. You okay with that, kid?”

“Yeah, sure. I just hope Killian’s cheered up,” Henry says, swallowing his last bite of toast. “He’s no fun when he’s mopey. And can I bring my Game Boy? I want to show Tink, if she’s there.”

“Mopey?” Snow asks. “What’s wrong with him?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Henry says, sketching air quotes around the word and making a very world-weary sort of face. “You know. Like Mom—Regina, I mean—when she’s _fine_.” Air quotes again.

“So something _is_ up with him,” Snow says, in an “aha” tone of voice. “I thought he’s been acting weird lately.”

“Yeah, less annoying,” David says. “Come on. We’re worrying about _Hook_ now?

“He looks miserable,” Snow insists. “Tired, and... I don’t know.”

She looks at Emma then, as if for back-up. “Yeah,” Emma says reluctantly. All the worry she’s been trying not to notice is back, full-force. It’s hard to tell herself she’s imagining it when Snow and Henry are imagining it with her.

“Maybe he’s just worried about Zelena and Rumplestiltskin,” David says. “I know I am.”

“But you’re not acting differently,” Snow points out.

David shrugs. “He’s dramatic.”

But the memory of her last few conversations with Hook are pressing in on Emma now. The way he wouldn’t look at her. The distance he’s been trying to put between them. The words he didn’t say to her last night, the ones she could almost see him form before giving up. Most of all, the way he feels more like a stranger now than back when he actually was a stranger.

Her attempts at rationalising the weirdness and talking herself out of worrying are evaporating like morning dew, leaving a cold, clammy feeling.

“Come on, kid,” she tells Henry. “Go get dressed and washed up, and get your Game Boy.”

When Henry has gone, Emma turns back to her parents.

“You think...” She has to clear her throat. “I mean, Zelena’s a witch, and she’s got the Dark One under her control, and... maybe they’ve done something to him. To Hook.”

Snow looks startled. “You mean like a curse? We’d know. Right? When I took the memory potion, I became different too, but... a lot different.”

“Could be a different kind of spell,” David suggests doubtfully. “Or...” He trails off, takes a deep breath, a dark look settling over his face. “Don’t chop my head off, okay? But maybe he’s working with her.”

“ _David_.” Snow gives her husband an admonishing look. Emma’s chest feels strange, like something cold is writhing inside it.

“I’m just saying.” David holds up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying. Maybe he’s miserable because he feels guilty. Maybe he’s even being blackmailed or something. But he _is_ a pirate, and it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

He has a point. And either Emma is too dumb to learn from her mistakes, or she has more of her mother’s optimism than she cares to admit, because something in her rebels at the thought.

_He wouldn’t._

But he _did_ , before. And just because she can’t imagine him turning traitor, she reminds herself, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. That’s a lesson she learned a long time ago.

But it still feels like _she’s_ betraying _him_ when she swallows her denial. The cold inside her churns a little more.

“It’d be the first time since Neverland,” Snow points out, her tone gentle but firm. “Besides, Emma would know if he’s lying.”

“I don’t—“ Emma starts, and has to clear her throat again. “I don’t always. I didn’t with Neal.”

Snow looks surprised, a frown drawing her brows down. “When did Neal lie?”

“You know.” Emma glances towards the bathroom door, beyond which she can hear the faint sound of running water. She waves a hand in a vague sort of circle. “Y’know, the whole... back in the day.”

Snow’s frown deepens. “Yeah, but he wasn’t lying then, was he? He wasn’t _planning_ to set you up. You said he said that Pin—August found him and told him to. Sorry,” she adds apologetically. “I guess I’m kind of assuming it works like one of those lie detector machines, not like a... a universal truth thing. You know, like, if the person thinks they’re telling the truth, it won’t show up as a lie?”

Emma stares at her mother’s worried face, feeling a mix of dawning comprehension and stupidity. How did she not make that connection before now? Snow is right. Of course she couldn’t tell that Neal was lying— _because he wasn’t lying_.

And offhand, she can’t think of a time where her superpower didn’t work on Hook.

“No, you’re right,” she says, as nonchalantly as possible, as if she’s not reeling a little inside. “That is how it works.”

She feels lighter, somehow. Still crowded by worries and too many thoughts, but at the centre of it all is a little calmer. It feels a little bit like the reassuring touch of a hand.

Before she can get too freaked out by that thought, there’s a knock on the door.

It’s Regina, scowling and bad-tempered, sweeping past Snow imperiously and looking around the loft. “Where’s Henry?”

“Brushing his teeth,” Emma says. “He’s fine. What’s up?”

Regina casts a glance towards the bathroom door and lowers her voice as she takes Snow’s seat at the table. “Zelena just paid me a visit.”

“What?!” Snow comes to stand beside David, who is already reaching up to take the hand she lays on his shoulder.

“Seems our book club was right,” Regina says grimly. “She—Zelena, I mean—came by to _congratulate_ me on figuring out that we’re sisters.”

“And?”

Regina waves a hand. “And, she tried to tell me she’s better than me, I told her to keep dreaming, you know, the usual... witchiness. Then I kicked her out. But I thought you’d want to know.”

“Wait. How did she know we figured it out?” Emma asks.

“I tried some... magic,” Regina says evasively. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that whatever she’s doing, it’s about me. I don’t know what she wants, but for some reason, she hates me.”

“Any idea why?” Emma asks.

Regina shakes her head. “No.”

“You _did_ make a lot of enemies back in our land,” David says.

Regina glowers at him. “Not her. I’ve never met her before. Anyway, does it matter? She attacked Henry.”

“Hey, we’re all on the same side here,” Snow soothes her. “But maybe if we know what Zelena wants, or why she hates you, we can figure out how to stop her. Whatever she’s planning can’t be good.”

“I know that,” Regina says impatiently. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll handle Zelena. You just keep Henry safe.”

“Sure,” Emma says. “But, uh, speaking of magic, I need to ask you something. About curses.”

Regina raises her perfectly-shaped eyebrows. “Curses?”

“Yeah, like, how can you tell if someone’s been cursed?” Emma asks.

“Well, curses usually do something,” Regina says. “For example, sleeping curses have one dead giveaway, I’m sure you can imagine what it is.”

It’s too early for this level of sarcasm. Emma drags a hand through her hair and tries to remember that she has patience, somewhere. “I meant, can you feel it, or tell with magic somehow.”

“Is this general curiosity, or are you talking about something specific?” Regina demands. “Because if it’s general, there are a lot of curses out there, and none of them are the same, and I don’t have time to—“

“It’s specific,” Emma cuts her off. “It’s about Hook.”

Regina says nothing. Her eyebrows say an awful lot, none of which Emma wants to hear.

She ignores Regina’s eyebrows, and goes on, “He’s acting weird.”

“What else is new?” Regina asks, her tone supremely disdainful. “Don’t we have more important things to worry about than the pirate’s emotional state?”

“Yes,” Emma says impatiently, “unless it’s not about his emotional state. I don’t mean the usual weird, I mean weird even for him.”

“Meaning?” Regina is not tapping her foot, but she might as well be.

“I—we—think something might be up with him,” Emma persists. “Last n—I talked to him yesterday, and it was like he wanted to tell me something, but then he didn’t. And he’s just been standoffish lately, which isn’t like him at all.”

Regina scoffs. “Maybe he’s just had enough of you.”

The words hit Emma somewhere deep inside, and it hurts. She can’t quite mask her reaction, her eyes widening, her mouth dropping open.

“ _Regina!_ ” Snow exclaims, in that I-can’t-believe-how-rude-you-just-were way she does so well. Beside her, David has raised his eyebrows as if to say _we should be so lucky_.

Regina is already shaking her head. “No, I’m... I didn’t mean that.” And, after another moment, hurriedly: “Sorry.”

The apology might be even more of a shock. Emma can’t think of a single reply.

It’s just as well, because Regina is already breezing right past it. “You could, uhm.” She clears her throat. “You could just ask him?”

 “I _did_ ask him,” Emma says. “He said he was sorry for being rude, and that he needed time.”

“Time?” Regina repeats, frowning. “Isn’t _he_ the one who wants, well, whatever it is you two keep dancing around?”

“That’s not what he meant,” Emma growls, ignoring the fact that she made that same assumption yesterday. “He wouldn’t give me any kind of straight answer. He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t really say anything either. Except that, y’know, we’re good. Apparently. But it feels wrong, and it’s not just me who’s noticed.”

“She’s right,” Snow says. “Even David thinks he’s different.”

David grunts something that might be agreement.

Regina’s frown is more earnest now, drawn into the mystery of Hook’s behaviour despite herself. That’s one thing about Regina that Emma has come to learn: present her with an intriguing enough question, and she’ll throw all haughty indifference aside and try to find the answer.

“Okay, well, most curses are pretty easy to identify,” she says. “Like I said, they all _do_ something. But there aren’t many ways to control someone, unless you take their heart.”

Emma’s own heart skips several beats at the thought. “You think that’s what happened?”

Regina looks grim. “We might be in trouble if so. But that’s easy enough to check.”

“How?”

“Try to rip it out,” Regina says with a shrug. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you asked.”

“There must be another way,” Emma insists. “What about light magic?”

“It’s not that simple,” Regina says. “You can’t just divide—hmm.” She gives Emma a sharp, speculative look.

“What?”

“We _could_ have a look around Gold’s shop,” she says. “He might have something useful. Or something that’d help against Zelena.”

“I don’t know.” Snow is regarding Regina with what is probably a healthy dose of caution. “You think digging around Rumplestiltskin’s things is a good idea? I doubt he’s got anything... well, wholesome in there.”

“Rumple collected all kinds of magic,” Regina says impatiently. Emma still can’t read Regina all that well, but she’d be willing to bet that Regina isn’t feeling nearly as nonchalant about Zelena’s visit as she’s pretending. The cool facade is in place, but Regina gets snappy when she’s rattled.

Well, Regina gets snappy for a lot of reasons, but Emma’s gut is telling her that this one is due to Zelena.

“It’s worth a shot,” Emma decides. She can’t claim to be eager to go ferreting around Gold’s shop—she’d rather avoid the place altogether—but Regina is right. They could really use some help. Any help. “Anything else you can think of?”

“Just _ask_ him,” Regina says again. “You know how to interrogate people, don’t you? Even if he is cursed, he should be able to tell you, unless he’s under a geis or something, but I doubt that.”

 “Under a _what_?” Emma asks.

“It’s a magical prohibition,” Regina says, impatience creeping back into her voice. “Stops people from saying things you don’t want them to say.” Her expression darkens. “It’s old magic. I only found out about it _after_ Snow spilled my secret, unfortunately.”

Snow presses her lips together and looks away.

“But if he _is_ under one of those gash things?” Emma asks, eager to know more and eager to get off the subject of Snow and her indiscretion.

“ _Geis_ ,” Regina corrects with a disdainful toss of her head. “G-E-I-S.”

The penny drops. Emma knows that word. She’s just never heard it said before. It features in quite a few fantasy stories, but she’s always pronounced it like “geese” in her head.

Oops.

Regina is still talking. “And like I said, I doubt it. Zelena has probably never even heard of it. Most people haven’t. And it’s not like ripping out a heart. You need all the right conditions, and you have to be subtle. _And_ it’s always tied to a task—as in, you can’t talk until you’ve done whatever you’re meant to do. So unless Zelena wants him to sit there and read all the books in the world... I mean, he hasn’t been doing anything else, has he?”

“No,” Emma says slowly, but she is not nearly as quick to dismiss the idea as Regina. Most people may not have heard of a geis in the Enchanted Forest, but she has. Granted, it was only in stories, but until a week ago, she thought the Wicked Witch of the West was only a story, too.

“We’ll check the heart thing,” Regina says. “Maybe Rumple has something. And if that’s not it, ask him. Forcefully. Or I’ll do it.”

“We aren’t torturing anyone,” David says, his voice and expression firm.

Regina huffs and glowers at him. “ _You_ don’t have to. But _I’m_ not taking any chances with that witch around.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Emma says, knowing that there’s no way she’s going to involve Regina in any kind of interrogation. If anyone is going to be cajoling or threatening Hook, it’s going to be Emma. The last thing she wants is a flambéed pirate because Regina lost her patience again. “Let me call Belle and ask if we can check the shop.”

Ten minutes later, she and Henry are bundled into the bug, Regina having passed up the offer of a ride in favour of magic smoke.

“So,” Henry says. “I was thinking. We should call this one Operation Knightley.”

“Operation what now?” Emma asks.

“Operation Knightley. We’re gonna figure out what’s wrong with Hook and fix it,” Henry says.

“How did you—”

“I don’t take that long to brush my teeth,” Henry says, far too smugly for an eleven-year-old. “I heard everything.”

Emma isn’t even surprised. She should have known—would have known, if she hadn’t been so preoccupied by thoughts of witch fights and cursed pirates. “Why, uh, why Knightley?”

The moment she says it, she’s thinking about Austen novels and getting a bit worried, but Henry gives her an impatient look. “ _Because._ He’s a pirate. But he hasn’t seen _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , and I don’t know if Jack Sparrow or any of _them_ are real, but he _definitely_ doesn’t know who Keira Knightley is.”

That comes as a relief. She should have known he’d be about pirates, not Austen heroes. “Why not... I don’t know, Depp?”

“Because that’s a dumb name,” Henry says. “Anyway, Elizabeth is the best one. Pirate King, remember?”

It’s hard to argue with that. “Okay, fine,” Emma says. “But, look, I don’t want you to worry about this, okay? I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, right,” Henry says. “You wouldn’t be worried if it wasn’t. I’m not stupid, you know. Is that where Neal is? Is he in on it?”

“What?” Emma shoots him a startled look. “In on what?”

“I thought maybe he had a secret mission or something,” Henry says. “I haven’t seen him in—in a while.”

Emma pulls up outside of Gold’s shop, and turns to Henry. He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s only eleven, and she’s known him for a while now. “He’s just busy, with... you know, his dad’s missing, and he’s trying to help us find him.”

“No secret mission?” Henry asks.

“Sorry, kid, no secret mission.” _That I know of._ She actually doesn’t know where Neal is, has only seen glimpses of him over the past couple of days. Between one thing and another, she hasn’t had time to keep track of him. “But actually, I know he’s going to try and meet us in Granny’s later, if he can.”

It’s not quite true, but it will be once she gets a moment to send him a text. She feels momentary spark of guilt at the white lie, but the last thing she wants is for Henry to start thinking that his father doesn’t care.

Henry looks more cheerful again, and that goes a long way to lifting her spirits. At least she can still fix _that_.

She climbs out of the car, and heads into the pawnshop.

 

*  *  *

 

After breakfast, back in the familiar, book-strewn living room of the B&B, Killian tests his curse further. He tries to talk to Belle about it, tries every combination of words he can think of, but he can’t so much as ask for her help researching cursed love.

Not that he needs more research; he already knows that books won’t help him here.

Belle’s phone rings. “Emma,” she says, surprised. “Hi.”

Killian can’t quite stop himself from looking up at the name, wondering what’s going on, worrying whether this is another crisis. But Belle doesn’t look worried.

“What? Yeah, sure. Do you need me to come over?” A pause. “No, look, just take whatever you need. We’ll work it out. He—he took most of it from other people, anyway.”

The conversation ends soon afterwards, and Belle puts the phone down with a sigh. “Emma,” she tells Killian, needlessly. “She and Regina want to have a look through the shop.”

“Ah.” He tries a smile. “It’s kind of you to let them.”

Belle shakes her head. “It’s not really mine, anyway.”

She turns away, back to her books. Killian follows her example. He still doesn’t know her all that well, but he knows that every mention of Rumplestiltskin is fraught with tension. He has yet to figure out whether it’s due to worry or anger on her part—or perhaps it’s both. For all that he’s usually good at reading people, Belle has him a little stumped. He can’t, for the life of him, understand how a woman like her could get involved with a man like Rumplestiltskin, even defend him—but then, he is more than a little biased against the crocodile.

“This is pointless,” Belle declares unexpectedly, slamming her book shut. “We aren’t going to find anything in here, are we?”

“It certainly isn’t promising,” Killian agrees with a sigh. “I don’t suppose there are any books on light magic around.”

“I haven’t found any,” Belle said. “Rumple collected all kinds of... but I haven’t seen anything.”

Something in her voice makes Killian take a closer look at her. She’s smiling, but it’s wavering a little, like she’s fighting to hold it in place. “Are you all right, lass?”

She shakes her head. “Yes. Fine. I just... well.” She waves a hand at the piles of books and papers around them. “I can’t help wondering...”

Killian recalls the journals he flicked through, the accounts of magical experimentation he half-read in his quest for answers. He’s been focusing on his goals, rather than sparing any real thought for the things he’s been reading, but even so... “I see.” He can’t think of anything else to say.

“I mean, I know he must have done some of—I’ve _seen_ him do things,” Belle goes on. “The things in his shop, half of them are trophies. It’s just different, somehow, seeing it all written down like this, like it’s not—like those people didn’t _matter_.”

His first impulse is to demand how it’s different—does murder mean less to her if it isn’t written down? If Milah’s death were detailed in one of these journals, would Belle care more?

Killian presses his lips together against a fresh wave of guilt. It isn’t Belle’s fault. And from what he’s come to know about her, she understands the world through books. Of course it’s hitting home—especially now, in the wake of Rumplestiltskin’s latest betrayal of her trust. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can carry on here. You should have said.”

“What? No.” She shakes her head again. “No, I just meant, I really don’t think it’s doing any good. Maybe we should just admit defeat and help the others search, instead.”

Killian has been coming to that conclusion himself, much as he hates admitting that all those hours of work were wasted. “Perhaps. Though I’m afraid I’m not much of a tracker. I barely even know the town.”

“You haven’t explored?” Belle asks.

“Not as such,” he says. His time in Storybrooke has mostly been spent focused on killing Rumplestiltskin, or focused on avoiding flying monkeys, or just plain focused on Emma Swan.

It’s possible that he has a problem with being a little too single-minded at times.

“I did help map out the attacks,” he says, perhaps a shade defensively. “I’ll make do.”

“Wait.” Belle is suddenly staring at him, a sharp, speculative look in her eye. “That’s right. You’re a pirate. A sailor. You know your way around maps.”

“Of course,” he says, confused. “What—“

“Why aren’t we using that?” Belle asks, excited now. “Why is nobody—okay. Okay. You and I are going to find some maps, and we’re going to go through the records—I have them all in the library computer—and we are going to look at this _logically_.”

He has no idea what exactly she’s talking about, but she looks hopeful and she’s smiling, so he nods. “All right.”

Half an hour later, he and Belle are back at Granny’s after an excursion to the library, several maps of the town and a sheaf of paper now piled on the table instead.

“Records,” Belle says. “We’ll skip everything in the town itself. But she must be somewhere within the curse boundary, because Rumple can’t leave the town. And she’s got to be staying in some kind of building, really.”

“Ah.” Killian is pretty sure he understands Belle’s plan now. “So we’re marking out uninhabited areas and narrowing down our possibilities?”

“Exactly!” She beams at him. “I’ll look for vacant buildings and places we can account for, you mark them on the map, okay?”

He feels the first cautious stirring of optimism. “Aye. That’s a solid plan.”

Navigation has never been Killian’s favourite thing to do, but he is good at it. It’s repetitive, boring work, bent over the map and measuring distances and marking off the addresses that Belle reads him. He re-marks the attack sits, too, along with the direction in which the monkey who attacked Neal disappeared. If they’re lucky, the beast turned straight for home, meaning Zelena’s base is somewhere along that line.

He really wishes he’d seen where the one from the hospital went.

After a couple of hours, Ruby shows up with a plate of pastries and leaves again before they can protest.

Belle’s phone chimes. “Leroy says this place is completely abandoned,” Belle says, pointing to one of the addresses on her list. “The one on Talbot Street.”

Killian crosses it off the map. They’ve already settled into a new routine: he and Belle identify possible places, and Belle texts them to Snow, who passes the information onto everyone else who’s patrolling. It isn’t much, but it’s better than hoping to come across tracks during patrols.

“I’ll just text this one to Snow,” Belle says, pointing at an area on the map that Killian has marked as a maybe.

“And this one,” Killian adds, indicating another. “And remind her to be careful.”

Belle tilts her head at him. “I’m sure she knows that.”

“Aye, but she’s with David, and they’re heroes,” Killian says darkly. “They have a tendency to throw caution to the wind.”

 

*  *  *

 

Gold’s shop is creepy as always, almost more so now that it’s empty. Emma keeps expecting him to show up and demand what she’s doing, the familiar guilt of looking through unobserved shop shelves settling on her shoulders.

She’s not stealing, she tells herself. She’s just looking.

_Maybe_ borrowing.

Not that she has any idea what she’s even looking for, since that would require her to have some understanding of what any of this stuff actually _does_.

Regina doesn’t seem to share Emma’s qualms. There’s a light in her eyes and an eagerness in her every movement as she looks through the display cases and the shelves behind them, standing on her toes to peer at the higher ones. She already has a small stack of objects and books on one of the counters.

Henry is pacing around the shop, too, his movements slow, his little body stiff with self-restraint. Regina made it very clear that under no circumstances is he to touch anything, and for once, Emma fully supports her strictness. Henry, for his part, is so eager to look around that he’s taking the conditions painfully seriously. Emma can almost see his impulses to reach out his hands, which he has clamped firmly behind his back.

 “Here,” Regina says after a while. They’ve moved to the back room, and Regina has climbed up on an ancient-looking chair to get access to the higher shelves. She scrunches up her nose as she steps gingerly back down, a small, ornately-decorated box in her hand.

“What?” Emma asks, abandoning her idle perusal of one of the drawers.

Regina flips the lid of the box open, to reveal a small silver sphere, about the size of a golf ball. On closer inspection, Emma realises that it’s in fact a stone of some kind, light turquoise in colour but covered with an intricate, lace-like silver filigree.

It must be worth a small fortune.

“Pretty,” she says, as Henry moves over to stand next to her, craning his neck. “What is it?”

“It’s a scrying stone,” Regina says. “Stupidly complicated to use, and mostly pointless. Very flashy, though, so _some_ people,” the tone of her voice says exactly what she thinks of such people, “love it. But the important part is, anyone can use it, unless they don’t have a heart.”

“Even if they can’t use magic?” Emma asks.

Regina nods. “Watch.”

She removes the stone from its mouldy velvet cushion and holds it delicately between finger and thumb. It begins to shine, the stone giving off a faint silvery light. “That wouldn’t happen if I didn’t have a heart,” Regina says. “So, all you have to do it get Hook to hold it. Pretty sure _that_ shouldn’t be a problem. Just make sure he gives it back.”

“Can I see?” Henry asks eagerly.

“Yes. If you’re careful.” Regina holds out the stone, and drops it in Henry’s outstretched palm. It shines a little more brightly.

“How do you use it?” Henry asks.

“You don’t,” Regina say, her tone admonishing. “Scrying is an art form, but like I said, mostly pointless. Not to mention dangerous, even if you know what you’re doing. Never put too much store in visions and prophecies.”

Emma reaches out for the stone, and, a little reluctantly, Henry hands it to her. She puts it back in its case, and slips the box into her pocket. “Thanks.”

“Why don’t you go on to Granny’s,” Regina says. “I can handle this myself.”

Part of Emma thinks that it might be a good idea to stay and keep an eye on Regina, and her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Regina smirks. “It’s not like you know what any of this stuff does, is it? You _could_ try trusting me.”

“Uh-huh,” Emma says, not at all convinced. But Regina has a point. She’s not much use as a chaperone when she doesn’t have any idea what to watch out for. “Just try not to get too carried away. And be careful.”

“Yes, yes,” Regina says, waving her towards the door. “And you, look after Henry.”

The box with the scrying stone is a reassuring weight in Emma’s pocket as she makes her way up the steps to Granny’s diner. At least she’ll get one answer now, with any luck.

When she steps through the door, it’s to find Granny pouring a cup of coffee for someone with tension radiating from her. Ruby, too, is looking on edge as she collects empty dishes from a table.

The source of their wariness is sitting at a table in the corner: a tall man with short brown hair and, currently, a wide smile on his face. Emma recognises Jefferson at once, though he looks very different now than the last time she saw him. He’s sitting across from a little girl with hair the same shade of brown as his, and they seem to be having tea.

“That’s Grace!” Henry exclaims, following Emma’s gaze. “Can I go say hi?”

But Jefferson has noticed them now, too, and the smile dies from his face when his eyes meet Emma’s. A brief word to his daughter, and he’s getting to his feet, the girl joining him as he moves towards Emma. Emma shakes the snow off her coat and tugs off her hat, regretting it immediately as strands of electrified hair float down to stick to her forehead.

Granny and Ruby drift ever so subtly closer, reminding Emma inescapably of wolves moving in for the kill.

“Emma,” Jefferson says, bowing his head and biting his lip. “ _Sheriff_. I wanted to—hi.”

“Hi,” Emma says, vaguely aware that Henry and Grace are grinning at each other.

“I owe you an apology,” Jefferson says. He seems to be having trouble meeting her eyes, though Emma isn’t sure if that’s due to guilt at having kidnapped her, or if that’s just him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Emma says automatically.

Jefferson clears his throat, shifts his weight to his other foot. Nope, not just guilt, Emma decides. The man is just weird. “Heard you’ve been having some trouble,” he says.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Emma says.

“ _I_ think,” Grace pipes up, “that maybe Papa can help.” She offers Emma a shy smile.

“My hat’s broken,” Jefferson says hastily. “Can’t do anything. But I’ve encountered flying monkeys before.”

Emma raises her eyebrows. Part of her wants to send him home—he’s a weird guy, and he did kidnap her and Snow—but that’s the old, logical part of her. Her gut says something else.

Besides, in hindsight, all Jefferson ever wanted was for her to break the curse so he could be reunited with Grace. Now he is, and he’s got her and Henry to thank for it.

And if she gave Hook a chance, then really, Jefferson deserves one, too.

“Great,” she says. “We could actually use some expertise on that. Come on, the others are in the living room.”

Hook and Belle are once again busy, but it’s a slightly more chaotic busy than before. Belle is leafing through a stack of papers on her lap, a pen in her hand, colour in her cheeks and tangles in her hair. Hook is on one knee at the table, bent over a map of Storybrooke and the surrounding area. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the charms on his necklace clinking together on the table top as he measures something and makes a careful mark on the map. His hook is carefully braced on a corner of the map, holding it in place.

He looks up when Emma enters, blue eyes through inky black lashes. A few strands of hair have fallen into his face; the rest is in total disarray. His shirt is gaping open, and the angle allows an even more generous glimpse of his chest than usual. Something about the pose, the tousled hair, the way he’s looking up at her through his eyelashes, is stealing the air from Emma’s lungs.

One of his damnable eyebrows quirks upwards, and Emma realises that she’s staring. And having some trouble remembering why she’s here.

_Damn_ him.

“Emma!” Belle says, apparently oblivious to the moment. “Hi!”

Emma swipes at her hair, which is still a mess. She clears her throat, gesturing at the man beside her. “Hi. Uh, this is Jefferson. Jefferson, I think you know Belle? And that’s Hook—uh, Killian.”

Hook is getting to his feet, his expression dark as he sizes Jefferson up. “You’re the one who kidnapped Swan.”

Jefferson’s eyes narrow. “You’re the one who shot Belle.”

Emma glances at Belle, who gives an exasperated sort of half-shrug.

“O-kay,” Emma says, shooting Hook a warning look. “How about, Jefferson is here to help, and Hook’s here to help, and we’re all on the same side? Yeah?”

Hook takes a deep breath, sighs, and makes Jefferson a sarcastic little bow. “Welcome aboard.”

Jefferson is holding up both hands, as if to say that he didn’t start it. “Thanks,” he says, sounding as sarcastic as Hook looks.

Hook shakes his head, gets back down on one knee, and picks up the pencil he dropped.

Belle brushes past the moment, greeting Grace and Henry with a warm smile and an explanation of what she and Hook are doing. Emma fishes the box out of her pocket, shrugs out of her coat, and drops into the armchair nearest Hook.

He looks up again, eyes immediately landing on the box in her hands.

_Pirate_ , she thinks. What she says is, “Hey, I just wanted to try something. Hold this for a second.”

She hands him the stone, which begins to glow the moment she touches it. He takes it on reflex, it seems, though he gives it a suspicious look. “What the devil is it?”

Emma leans in to look at it. It’s still glowing, and if anything, it gets a little brighter as she watches.

“Just a thing Regina found,” she says, relief making her feel like someone cut a string inside of her. “I—we were wondering if it’d work for someone without magic.”

He nods, then frowns, tilting his head as he looks at her. “Indeed? What are you up to, Swan?”

Damn him. Damn her, too, because she can’t quite help smiling now that she knows that, whatever else is going on, at least Zelena hasn’t taken his heart. “Nothing,” she says. “Just trying to find stuff that’ll help. With Zelena. You know.”

“And you reckon this will?” He looks down at it. “What does it do?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, which technically isn’t a lie, because she has no real idea what scrying is. “It glows.”

He considers that. “It’s quite pretty.”

“Yeah.” His lashes are feathering down on his cheeks as he looks down, the stone held between thumb and forefinger now. He’s turning it this way and that with deft, sure movements, his rings catching the faint light of the stone in sharp gleams. Emma watches, entranced, until:

“What do you reckon it’s worth?”

“ _Hook._ ”

He looks up at her again, through those damnable eyelashes, and this time there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. He looks completely unrepentant. He’s also a lot closer than she realised, and that’s her fault, for leaning in.

“Merely a pirate’s idle curiosity, love,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” she says, holding out her hand and making “give it here” motions with her middle and index finger.

He grins and hands the stone back to her. His fingers brush against her palm for the briefest instant, and it tickles a bit, and she swears she feels it all the way to her toes. She feels the touch linger even as she puts the stone back in its box.

Damn him.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian’s fingers are still tingling as he leans back and tries to remember what the hell he was doing before Emma showed up. Mapping out locations, or something. He can’t remember the last address Belle gave him.

Emma clears her throat. She looks beautiful—and he doesn’t want to notice it, he really doesn’t, but her cheeks are still slightly red from the cold outside, and her hair is wild around her face, and he can still feel the softness of her skin against the tips of his fingers, and she’s beautiful. There’s no way around it.

His own hair is bound to be an unholy mess, and he stifles the urge to try and smooth it down. It doesn’t matter. She’s not looking at him like that—which is a good thing.

And he really, _really_ needs to stop looking at her.

“So,” Emma says. “Jefferson? You said you’d run into these monkey things before?”

Jefferson has claimed an arm chair across the room, the girl Grace perched on the arm rest beside him. “Yeah. The Wicked Witch kinda... makes ‘em.”

“Makes them how?” Emma asks, already grimacing like she’s not sure she wants to know.

“No idea.” Jefferson’s eyes widen as he raises his eyebrows. “Magic.”

He talks like a show master, or a crazy person, constantly pulling dramatic faces as if he’s on a stage or something. Killian recalls Ruby mentioning that his alter ego is the _Mad_ Hatter.

“And they can turn people into monkeys, right?” Emma asks. “By biting?”

“Yep.” He pops the “p”. “More magic. Can’t kill ‘em, either, at least not really. They just turn to smoke and ash and return to her, and she sends them out again.”

“Great,” Emma says.

“That _does_ eliminate the moral conundrum of potentially shooting our own people,” Hook points out.

“True.” Emma blows out a breath. “I don’t suppose you know a cure?”

“Cure?” Jefferson shakes his head. “If I had to guess, more magic. Or persuade the witch to lift the spell.”

“Somehow, I doubt she’d co-operate,” Emma mutters.

“There _are_ spells to lift enchantments,” Belle says. “At least, some kinds of enchantments—”

Emma’s phone makes an insistent musical noise, cutting off the conversation as she hurries to answer it.

“Yeah,” she says. “What’s—Mary Margaret?”

Killian knows it’s impolite to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible to miss Snow’s panicked shouts. He catches something about “found her” and “attacking”, in between what sounds like monkey screeches and gun shots—or possibly that’s the phone being jostled around.

“Where are you?” Emma demands, already on her feet.

More shouting.

“Hang on, I’m—I’m on my way!” Emma turns to Belle. “Call Regina. Tell her to get over here _right now_ and watch Henry. You—”she points at Jefferson “—stay here. Hook?”

Killian is already on his feet. One look is enough to tell him what she wants, and he nods. “Where to?”

“The car,” Emma says as she hurries to the door. He follows, joining her in the hallways as she presses a button on the screen of her phone. The cacophony grows louder, clearly audible for him now. “Mary Margaret, where are—”

The phone gives a great burst of noise, Snow yells something incoherent, and then everything grows quieter again.

“I think she dropped it,” Emma says, pale and wide-eyed as she runs towards the stairs. “Mary Margaret!”

There’s the unmistakable sound of a woman’s scream. “David!”

“Damn it, damn it,” Emma mutters. “We’ll never get there in time—”

 “Magic,” Killian exclaims. “Your magic. You can transport us there—”

“I can’t!” She looks more panicked than ever. “I don’t even know where they are!”

But he knows as well as she does that her car will never get them to the others in time to be of use. He knows where Belle sent them. It’s too far.

“An old farmhouse near the forest, by Whitehill Lane,” he says. “That’s where Belle sent them.”

Emma is shaking her head. “I _can’t_.”

“Yes,” he says, as firmly as he can manage. “You can. I watched you do it yesterday, Swan.”

“You don’t get it,” she argues. “If I do it wrong—”

“You won’t,” he cuts her off. He hesitates; but this is no time for half-measures. “Send me there and follow in the car if you want. But they need help _now_.”

She opens her mouth as if to argue again, but she knows what he does: they’re wasting time. She blows out a breath, nods, and reaches for him, catching his hand.

He nods back. “I trust you. You’ll do it.”

Even so, he’s admittedly nervous as Emma squeezes her eyes shut. He’s been transported by magic before, but it was always an undeniable expert like Regina or Cora behind the wheel. Emma, for all her virtues, is still a novice.

But doubt is going to destroy any chance they have now, so he pushes it away, and doesn’t let it show.

There’s no swirl of smoke, and none of the tugging sensation he’s always felt on previous occasions. There’s just a brief lightness, as though he’s filled with air, and then snow is falling around him and cold is biting at his skin.

Screeches rend the air, and he looks for their source even as Emma asks, “You okay?”

“Aye,” he assures her, eyes sweeping across the landscape.

An old house stands a little ways away across the snow-covered grass, and a few yards beside it—

“C’mon.” Emma tugs at his hand, and they break into a run towards the monkeys who are swarming around a lone figure. Snow is still on her feet, standing over the prone figure of her husband and holding his gun. Another shot rings out.

Killian pulls out his pistol and fires without bothering to aim. He clips one of the monkeys’ wings, but the beast stays airborne.

Their attention, however, turns to him and Emma.

“Come get it!” Emma yells, firing a couple of shots into the swarm. “Go,” she adds to Killian. “I’ll cover you.”

He drops his pistol and pulls his sword free, leaning into his run. He reaches Snow a few moments later, barrelling into a monkey that’s swooping down towards her and rending it with sword and hook.

“Stay back,” he warns her over his shoulder, holding his sword out before him.

“You stab, I shoot,” she replies, her voice calmer than he expected, though he can hear the shake of fear in it.

“Aye.” He does as he’s told, taking a swing at a monkey that ventures too close. He falls into a rhythm, standing almost back to back with Snow as they keep their attackers at bay. Emma’s gun rings out again and again as she stays out of range and picks the monkeys off one by one.

Between them, they make short work of it. Killian is barely breathing hard by the time the last three monkeys turn heel—or rather, wing—and flee.

“Everyone okay?” Snow demands. “David!”

“What happened?” Killian asks as Snow sinks to her knees beside David.

Emma joins them at a run, breathing hard. “What happened?”

“I think he’s been bitten,” Snow says, and now her voice has lost its calm. “Oh, no, no, _no_ —”

She tugs his jacket away, and Killian sees it: a glistening, jagged wound on David’s forearm, like an animal bite.

He remembers the transformation he witnessed at the hospital, and curses.

“What?” Emma demands. “No, no, there’s gotta be—call Regina, maybe she can fix it—”

“She can’t,” Snow says quietly. Tears spill down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “She said it’s not that kind of magic.”

“Like hell it’s not,” Emma growls. She shoves Killian aside, drops down beside David, and holds her hand over his arm.

This time, there’s a burst of light—bright, golden light that seems to shine through Emma’s skin, her hand a shimmering, half-translucent shape.

When it fades, David’s wound is gone, the skin reddened but whole.

“There,” Emma says.

Then she sways on her haunches, and falls sideways into Killian.

“Emma!” Snow gasps.

Killian catches Emma as she knocks into him, his arm going around her reflexively. “Swan!”

“What,” she says, a groan in her voice, pulling half-heartedly away from him. “’m fine. Okay.”

He’s already searching for her pulse, and finds it, a little weak but steady. “You don’t seem fine.”

“Always sush a charmer,” she says, and though the words come out slurred and weak, they’re a relief. If she can still mock him, she can’t be doing too badly.

He looks over at Snow. Between them, David is stirring, his eyelids fluttering, like a man coming to after a hard knock.

“I hate to hurry this,” Killian says, “but I do suggest we leave, _before_ reinforcements arrive.”

Snow nods, hurrying over to Emma’s other side. “Take David. I’ve got Emma.”

Getting David back on his feet is almost harder than fighting off the monkeys. The man is still half out of it, groaning in protest as Killian pulls him off the frozen ground.

“On your feet, mate,” Killian says, undeterred. “Come on. No royal carriage to be had, I’m afraid.”

“Snow—” David starts.

“Is fine,” Killian assures him. “Can you stand?”

David gives him a bleary look. “Hook?”

“The one and only,” Killian confirms, grabbing hold of his arm to tug him upwards. “Now will you please get up?”

“Never—liked you,” David grumbles, struggling to get his feet under him. It takes him a few attempts, which seems to annoy him, judging by the way he’s clenching his jaw by the time Killian finally hauls him to his feet.

Emma is already standing, though she looks exhausted, pale in the wintery air. She’s dressed only in her woollen sweater and pants, and from the way she’s holding herself, she’s already shivering. Killian is about to take off his coat when he remembers that he’s not wearing one either.

“Emma,” David says. He’s more or less steady on his feet, though still looking rather dazed. “What—okay. What happened?”

“We’ll talk about it on the way,” Snow says. “We need to get moving. Come on.”

She turns to lead the way, unwinding her scarf as she goes. Half-turning, she holds it out to Emma. “Here. You must be freezing.”

David turns, too, seeming to notice Emma’s attire for the first time. Without another word, he shrugs out of his jacket.

“I’m fine—” Emma begins, but she’s struggling to get the words out past the shivers that have begun to take hold of her.

“You are not,” Killian tells her. She shoots him a dirty look.

David merely shakes his head and drapes his jacket around Emma’s shoulders. Emma turns her dirty look on him. He raises his eyebrows.

“Fine,” Emma says. “But Hook gets the scarf.”

“That’s hardly necessary—”

Snow laughs. “Birds of a feather. Here.”

And before he can stop her, she’s looped her scarf around his neck. It’s a pale purple, and judging from the sudden delight on Emma’s face, looks absolutely ridiculous. But he notices her slipping her hands into the sleeves of David’s coat, and so he gives in, draping the scarf around his neck properly and giving a coquettish flutter of his eyelashes for effect.

“Suits you,” Emma says, her eyes gleaming.

He pretends to think about it. “Do you think so? Perhaps I ought to consider branching out from black.”

She laughs, a little jerkily because of the cold.

“ _Please_ shut up, Hook,” David says, though his eyes are twinkling with amusement, too. “Let’s get back to the car.”

 

*  *  *

 

“So,” Emma says, trudging through the snow between her parents, trying to suppress the shivers that still tear at her body. David’s jacket is better than no jacket, but that’s as much as she can say for it. But if she lets on, they’ll only make more of a fuss, and being a little cold is the least of her worries right now. “What _happened_?”

“Belle texted us about the farmhouse, so we went to check it out,” Snow says. “It looks abandoned, but I saw tracks leading across the yard, to a storm cellar. So we went to check it out. We got it open, but a couple of monkeys flew out and right at us.”

“I think she keeps them down there,” David adds. “I’m pretty sure I saw a cage or something, but we didn’t get a good look.”

“Guards,” Hook says. He looks grumpy now, the scowl on his face making for an interesting combination with the lilac scarf around his neck. Emma is finding it hard to look away. “You know, when Belle said to be careful, _that_ was what she was talking about.”

“What would you have done, run away?” David challenges.

Hook shoots him a sour look. “No, I would have called for backup.”

“He’s got a point,” Snow says with a sigh, even as Emma mutters, “Sure you would.”

“At least we know where she’s hiding,” David says firmly. “That’s a start.”

“Aye, if anyone wants to battle some flying monkeys, they can head straight to the source.” Hook snaps the words, although Emma hears a shiver in his voice along with a big dose of frustration.

She lets some of her own exasperation show as she looks at him. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine. Weren’t you _just_ helping Belle find the place?”

“That was before I got confirmation, once again, that heroes have the unfortunate tendency to charge straight into battle without a strategy,” he growls. “Or an exit plan, for that matter.”

Emma wants to demand what the hell is wrong with him, but she swallows the words as realisation hits. She knows that tone—knows that particular brand of anger, intimately. He’s worried.

“We won’t,” she says impatiently. “But now we know where she’s hiding, so we can actually make a plan. You want me to run it by you so you can approve it, make sure it’s up to your standards?”

The look he gives her is narrow and dirty, and it shouldn’t, shouldn’t, make her heart trip. He pastes a smile over it, falsely sweet. “By all means.”

“How about,” Snow cuts in, a little too loudly, “we just work together on a plan, once you’ve all warmed up a little.”

“I’m fine,” Emma and Hook say together, and exchange another glower.

David exhales a sharp laugh, his breath frosting in the air as he walks, and shakes his head.

A few minutes later, Emma is crammed into the back seat of David’s car with Hook, trying not to lean into him and his presumable—and very appealing—warmth. The car is barely warmer than the outside, though at least without wind. She pulls David’s jacket more tightly around herself.

Beside her, Hook is wrestling with his seat belt, looking either angry or focused, she’s not sure.

“Need a hand?” Emma asks, and immediately wants to kick herself.

“I’ll manage, thank you,” Hook presses out.

There’s a click as the belt locks into place, and they both lapse into silence. Emma wants to say something—sorry about the hand thing, maybe, except that if she says sorry, she’ll acknowledge it, and it’ll be a _thing_ , while as it stands, it was just a stupid thoughtless comment. So maybe it’s better to just leave it.

But she kind of wants to say sorry anyway. More than anything, she wants to tease out another smile. And _that’s_ annoying as hell, because he’s being difficult and even rude and she should want to punch him, not make him smile.

But she’s worried.

His sense of humour seems to have fled the premises, only occasional flashes of it left. Something is _definitely_ wrong with him.

_Maybe he’s had enough of you._

Emma sneaks a glance at him. He’s studiously looking out of the window, his posture unusually stiff and uncomfortable.

Anger stirs. If he wants to be all weird and mysterious, fine. She’s handled worse. And she’s bested him before. She’s going to get some answers, real ones. Whatever it takes.

And then she’s getting off this damn rollercoaster, one way or another.

She looks up and catches Snow’s eye in the rear mirror, and Emma swears that her mother is hiding a smile. There’s no doubt, either, as to what she’s smiling about: Emma and Hook, sitting in the backseat like sulky teenagers.

The drive from the forest to Granny’s has never felt so long.


	16. Chapter 16

Emma is still shivering as she follows her parents up the path to Granny’s. It’s cold, the icy wind ripping through the snow’s lazy dance downwards, chasing the flakes through the air. They twirl in the corner beside the diner where the wind breaks, around and around like a whimsical tornado.

Granny’s has never been more welcoming, toasty warm and bright and full of familiar faces.

Henry comes running, throwing himself into Emma’s arms. He hugs Snow and David next, and clings to Emma’s arm while he asks Hook if he’s okay, too. Within seconds, Granny is calling for hot chocolate and tea and soup, and Jefferson is asking what happened, and Regina is _demanding_ to know what happened, and Emma spends the next ten minutes answering questions and reassuring Granny, Ruby, and Belle in turns that yes, she’s perfectly fine.

It’s something of a surprise to find that they’re just as concerned about her as they are about Snow and David.

It’s also overwhelming, especially since she’s still shaky from her magical efforts earlier. Exhaustion seeps into her along with the warmth, as if the cold and the shivering has been keeping her upright. Her eyelids feel very heavy.

“Hey.” Snow is standing in front of her, holding out a steaming mug. There’s cinnamon sprinkled over the swirl of cream on top. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

Emma takes the mug, and she takes the chair her mother gestures to, as well. She’s still shaky, much as she hates to admit it, and she feels like the world is collapsing in on top of her. The light is too bright, the voices are too loud, and there are too many questions. It’s just as well Snow handed her the cocoa. If anyone had asked her whether she wanted one, she might have screamed, or burst into tears, or just run.

She takes a sip, and feels her muscles unclench a little.

A few steps behind where Snow is sitting, Henry has claimed a stool at the counter. Regina is standing next to him and scowling at David’s shoulder. Hook is leaning against the counter a little further on, where Granny is ladling soup into bowls. The lilac scarf is still draped around his neck. He’s not looking at her, but he’s strangely still, as if he only just looked away. When Granny holds out a bowl to him, he doesn’t react. She nudges his shoulder. He jumps, and turns, and scowls at whatever smirking remark Granny makes as she hands him the bowl of soup.

“Emma?” Snow asks.

“Hmm?” Emma focuses on her, blinking. “Sorry, I—sorry. What’d you say?”

Snow is peering at her with no small amount of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Emma takes a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

Snow half-turns in her chair, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Emma thinks she’s trying to suss out what Emma’s been staring at. Not that she’s been staring. She’s pretty sure. But before she can brace herself—

“Regina?” Snow calls over the buzz of conversation.

Regina and David join them, Henry following moments later.

“He’s fine,” Regina announces with a careless wave towards David, who still looks a little pale, but otherwise his normal self. She glares at Emma. “Whatever you did, it worked. Which, what exactly _did_ you do?”

Emma shrugs. It takes a lot more effort than it usually does. “I just kinda... did it.”

Snow is frowning at her. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look exhausted.”

“Of course she’s exhausted,” Regina snaps. “You think healing a bite like that is a piece of cake? Especially since I doubt she did it with any kind of finesse, just bulldozed her way through it as usual.”

“I wonder who she learned that from,” David says, his tone pondering.

Regina turns her glare him. “Not _me_.”

“Of course not,” David agrees easily. “You’re the queen of subtlety.” He winks at Emma, who can’t quite help grinning at him.

“So it’s normal?” Snow asks, before Regina can retaliate. “To be tired like that?”

“After poofing herself and Captain Hot Topic across town for the first time and healing a magical transformation bite?” Regina asks, a slight bite in her tone. “No. _Normal_ would be if she passed out and didn’t wake up for a couple of hours. Feeling a bit tired is pretty—good going.”

_Impressive_ , Emma thinks. She was going to say _impressive_.

“You know you should have tried it alone first, right?” Regina goes on, glaring at Emma again. “It’s a lot harder with someone else in tow.”

She’s wrong. Emma doesn’t know why she knows that, but it’s true. It’s easier, the same way healing David took hardly any conscious effort at all. She can’t screw it up when the stakes involves someone she—someone else.

But she knows better than to try and explain that to Regina, especially since she doesn’t really understand it herself. “He—I didn’t have a choice.” And then, because she knows exactly how to make Regina back off by now, “But thanks for the concern.”

“I’m not—” Regina breaks off, apparently remembering that Henry is listening and might not appreciate hearing that she doesn’t care about Emma or Hook, and lets out a sharp, impatient breath. “Whatever. You made it, everyone’s okay, let’s move on. What now?”

“Now we call off the search, and tell everyone to avoid that farm house,” Snow says.

“We should keep the patrols, though,” Emma says. “Not in the forest, but around the town. I don’t want any more attacks, and the patrols seem to be making them careful, at least.”

Regina gives her a sour look, then turns back towards the counter. “Looks like those blueberry muffins are ready, Henry. Why don’t you go ask Ruby if she wants some help getting them out of the oven?”

Henry’s eyes light up. “Really?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, ducking out past David and making a beeline for the oven. He loves helping Ruby with the baked goods, mostly because it means he gets the first taste.

“Of course they’re not attacking the town,” Regina says once Henry is out of earshot. “I told you. It’s me she’s after. How did it go with Hook?”

“What?” Emma asks, taken aback by the sudden change in subject.

Regina makes an impatient gesture with her hand. “Does he have his heart, or—”

“Oh,” Emma says. “Yeah. It was—yes. Heart’s fine.”

“You found a way?” Snow asks, her eyes lighting up. “That’s great!”

“Yeah.” Emma’s smile doesn’t feel very convincing.

“One less worry,” David says, nodding.

“And maybe we can rule out his working for her, too?” Snow suggests, with a sidelong look at her husband. “He probably saved both our lives back there.”

“So did Emma,” David says quickly.

Snow just looks up at him with a kind of exasperated fondness, and waits.

He hesitates, then clears his throat. “But yeah. Okay. He has been—helping.”

Emma can tell that it costs him something to say the words, though more from pride than any real resentment towards the pirate. Snow shoots her a quick smile. “Glad we’re all on the same page now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” David says, trying and failing to look grumpy about it.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of Blue, and a few of the dwarves, and the buzz of conversation grows louder. Blue looks pale and worried, and comes right over to inquire about Emma, and Snow, and David.

“You healed him?” she asks, turning to Emma with wide eyes when Snow finishes telling her what happened. “Just like that?”

“Uhm, well—” Emma looks for Regina, but Regina has gone after Henry, probably to make sure he doesn’t make himself sick with too many muffins, “—not _just like that_ , really, it was... it just kind of happened.”

“Incredible.” Blue shakes her head, a faint smile on her face. “You must be strong indeed. Even we fairies can’t just heal bites like that.”

Emma shrugs uncomfortably. “I got lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah. Just... Emma, please be careful.” She, too, looks for Regina, though her expression has turned a little dark. “Don’t let Regina push you too hard. For someone as powerful as you, it’s more important than ever not to overdo it. Not to take shortcuts. There’s always a quick and easy path, but it’s usually not the right one. All magic comes with a price, and trust me, it’s not usually one you want to pay.”

Something is squirming inside Emma’s stomach, and she swallows. She feels almost guilty, as if she’s been caught cheating on a test. “Right. Yeah.”

The diner’s doorbell tinkles again, almost inaudible over the dwarves’ loud chatter, and Blue looks up.

“Baelfire,” she calls out, lifting a hand in greeting and smiling at Neal, who has just stepped through the door. He tugs a snow-dusted beanie off his head and does a kind of whole-body shrug, dislodging the snow on his coat. When he looks over and sees Blue and Emma, his face breaks into a wide smile.

“Hey!”

Emma waves at him, just as glad for the interruption—and for his presence, if she’s honest, for Henry’s sake.

“Hey,” she says as Neal joins them. “Glad you made it. Henry’s been asking for you.”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Yeah. Sorry, I’ve been—it’s been crazy.”

She believes him. His shoulders are hunched, and his eyes are nervous, like he’s just escaped from the police or something.

David, Emma notices, can’t quite bring himself to smile at Neal, but he manages a friendly sort of nod.

“Hi Neal.” Snow is perfectly polite as she smiles at him.

Emma has noticed a distinct difference all the same, though. Her behaviour now is missing that subtle hint of hope, those tiny nudges towards Neal that Emma only really notices now that they’re all gone. Evidently, her mother has given up on the idea of her and Neal ever reconciling.

For the first time Emma can think of, Snow giving up hope comes as nothing more than a quiet sort of relief.

“David,” Blue says. “And Snow, too, do you mind if I borrow you two for a moment? I’d like to talk to the dwarves about patrols, and I’d like a look at where you were bitten, too, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Snow says, though she sends a questioning look at Emma as she says it.

David is less subtle; he looks at Emma directly, his eyebrows raised in obvious question. She suppresses an eye roll, and shrugs to say _go ahead_.

Even so, David doesn’t look very happy to leave her there with Neal.

“Bitten?” Neal asks as he takes Snow’s vacated seat across from Emma. “What happened?”

For what feels like the hundredth time, Emma recounts the day’s events, even as tiredness washes over her again. Neal frowns, and shakes his head, and curses under his breath, and runs a distracted hand through his already-messy hair.

When she finishes, he ducks his head, like he always does, looking up at her through his lashes. “Hell of a day, huh?”

“You can say that again.” Emma lets out a breath, rubbing a hand across her eyes. She feels like she could sleep for a week. “You know. Flying monkeys. Because why not.”

Neal huffs out a laugh. “At least it’s not boring?” he offers.

“I could do with a little more boredom,” Emma says with feeling, taking another sip of cocoa. It’s hot and sweet and exactly what she needs, warming her from inside and seeming to steady her a little, too.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Neal says. His eyes are on her, and his smile is soft, understanding. _Too_ understanding; and just like that, the moment turns dangerous, and Emma leans back a little, under cover of drinking more cocoa.

Regina is trying to pull Henry away from Ruby’s pastry-filled care. The boy is holding a steaming muffin in his hand and looks to be arguing his case to a Regina who is clearly trying not to be charmed. It takes Emma a moment to locate Hook; he has moved to a table with Belle, deep in discussion, his brow furrowed.

Too late, Emma realises that Neal is half-turning in his seat, following her gaze. To her surprise, when he turns back, he looks cautious rather than annoyed.

“You said Killian went with you?”

“Yeah.” Emma swallows back the explanation. It doesn’t matter, and he didn’t ask.

“Is he... okay?”

That catches Emma by surprise. Concern for Hook is a new one.

Or is it? For the first time in a while, she remembers that they know each other from way back—way, _way_ back, in fact. From the little she’s gleaned, Neal spent some time aboard the _Jolly Roger_ as a kid, and romantic rivalry aside, he seems to be one of the few people Hook genuinely cares about.

She wonders, suddenly, if it’s as one-sided as she thought.

“I think so,” Emma says. “He’s not hurt, anyway. Just... well, you know. Moody.”

“Right.” Neal huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t look amused. “Since when’s he friends with Belle, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Emma says, unsure where this is going. “I don’t know if they’re friends, exactly, just... working together on this Wicked Witch thing.”

“I’d have thought he’d be working with you.” There’s something lurking in that comment, something careful and too observant.

Emma shrugs as casually as she can manage. “I’m not real great at research, and he’s not exactly a magic teacher.”

Neal’s brow furrows again, but for once, he doesn’t say anything about magic and Emma learning to use it. “That never stopped him before.”

“Well, it’s stopping him now,” Emma says, exasperated. She’s too tired for this, too exhausted to pay attention to every word, and undertones, and overtones, and implications. “Why do you care, anyway?”

He holds up both hands as if she just yelled at him. “It was just a question, Emma, take it easy.”

“Sorry,” she says automatically. “Sorry, I just... it’s been a long day. And it’s not even over.”

“Hey, I get it,” he assures her. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Too much for anyone to deal with,” Neal says. “Storybrooke’s definitely got more than its share of trouble.”

“You can say that again.” Emma sighs.

“Maybe when this is over, you should take a break,” Neal suggests, a smile on his face now. “You know. Get away from it all.”

Emma laughs. “That sounds great.” _Like a fairytale._

_So, likely to turn out very different from what you’d expect,_ the cynical voice at the back of her mind observes.

“Where would you go?” Neal asks. “If you could, I mean. Daydreams.”

It’s not a question she’s ready for. She used to daydream about going to other places all the time. A home by the sea. A cabin in the forest. A normal house in the suburbs somewhere.

She hasn’t daydreamed like that in a while now. She can’t quite say when or why she stopped.

Too busy fighting flying monkeys and rescuing her kid, maybe. But that’s the cynical part of her again.

“I don’t know,” she says, and reaches for the first place she can think of that isn’t totally lame like _a quiet house by the beach_. “The Bahamas, maybe?”

Neal chuckles. “Sounds good to me.”

And just like that, the moment turns dangerous again, and Emma looks away, her eyes seeking out Henry. “Yeah. Hey, listen, Henry was asking about you earlier, I think he really wanted to spend some time with you.”

Neal’s face lights up with another smile. “Yeah. Me too. Thanks for the text.”

“Sure. Hang on, he was over there a minute ago...” Emma looks for Henry again, and tries to wave to get his attention. Regina spots her, and seems to take it as an opportunity to get Henry’s mind off pastries, because she nudges him and points him towards Emma and Neal.

At the sight of Henry hurrying over to them, Emma’s tension eases a little. She hates using him as a buffer, but, she insists to herself, she’s not really. He _wanted_ to spend time with Neal. It’s just a case of two birds, one stone.

Even so, she promises herself that once this current crisis is over, she and Neal are going to have a talk, and she is going to convince him once and for all that they are better as friends and co-parents than anything romantic. That ship has definitely sailed.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal hasn’t seen Henry in days—long days spent mostly with Zelena and his father, trying to persuade the latter that this is for the best. His father, of course, hates the whole situation. But once Neal has managed to free him from the dagger and its cursed influence, he’ll see the truth. He’ll understand.

But it’s hard, all the same. His father has gone from threatening, to pleading, to plain old silence, all of it difficult to witness—and to withstand. He’s almost asked Zelena for the dagger twice already.

Henry is delighted to see him, and Emma is finally smiling more freely, too, once the boy joins them. This is how it should be, Neal thinks, his chest aching. This is how it’s meant to be. The three of them, together. A family.

Even so, his eyes keep sliding over to Killian, who is still talking to Belle. The pirate looks pale and tired, his brows drawn down in a permanent frown.

He still hasn’t done it. Of all the difficulties with this plan, Neal didn’t count on _this_ being such an obstacle. He didn’t think that Killian might actually refuse to kiss Emma.

He didn’t think he’d ever find himself silently encouraging the man to do so.

But Killian has a noble streak that tends to rear up at exactly the wrong moments. Neal can’t help wondering if this goes back to his promise to back off. Maybe all those times he ran into him and Emma together really were just coincidence, maybe Killian really did mean it.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to take away Emma’s magic—Zelena was ranting and cursing about the fact that he figured out what she did to him, not that that was surprising. Zelena is pretty transparent sometimes, and Killian is clever enough to outwit and out-subtle her any day.

Neal glances over at Killian again, something in his chest twisting uncomfortably at the sight of the misery on the man’s face. He needs to talk to him. Whatever his motivations, Killian is clearly at least trying to be a better man. And if he really wants what’s best for Emma...

Maybe all he needs is some reassurance that it’s the right thing to do.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian is aware of Emma and the others leaving, Snow stopping by to thank him again for his help and tell him that they’re all heading back to the loft. He’s glad to hear it; he’s been half-worried that Emma would insist on going back out on patrol duty or something, but it seems that exhaustion and her parents have won the case.

Good.

He excuses himself a few minutes later and heads back up to the B&B’s living room while Belle stays to chat to Ruby and Jefferson. He’s sitting on the couch, staring at the map and wondering just how much of the blame for the attack on Snow and David falls on him, when the sound of his name drags him out of his reverie.

He looks up. Neal is standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. He pushes off and slouches down into an arm chair instead. “You okay?”

Killian’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. “I’m fine. I thought you went with Emma.”

Neal shakes his head, looking rueful. “Didn’t want to intrude. But she’ll be okay.”

“Aye.” That much, he knows. Emma is nothing if not resilient.

“By the way,” Neal starts. “You, uh. You lost interest in her or something?”

Killian’s teeth grind together. “Or something,” he says.

Neal blows out a breath. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Look, just... just do it, will you? Put us all out of our misery.”

Killian stares at him, something icy cascading into the pit of his stomach. Neal meets his eyes, and there’s only one conclusion. “You know.” It comes out as a whisper, incredulity stealing his voice.

“Yeah,” Neal says. “I’d have thought you’d have done it by now, but you... why haven’t you?”

Killian doesn’t answer. He’s far more concerned with the realisation that there’s only one way Neal could possibly know about his curse. “You’re working with _her_?” Killian demands. “What the bloody hell—?”

“I’m doing what I have to,” Neal replies, his voice steady. “She’s the only one who can help me. Help us.”

“Help you?” Killian echoes. “ _Help_ you? With what, pray tell?”

“Emma’s magic.” Neal says it as if it’s obvious. “Look, just—it’s okay, I promise. It’s not gonna hurt her or anything, and I’m okay with it, and... it’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing—” It isn’t often that Killian is reduced to stupidly repeating his opposite’s words. But it’s Neal, sitting across from him and calmly asking him to take away Emma’s magic, like Emma asked him to help save Storybrooke’s people.

“Yeah, you know. Good form, or whatever.”

It really isn’t, but another thought pushes past that one and makes Killian’s heart stutter. “Wait—if you know, then perhaps you can tell her,” he says wildly. “You can tell Emma about the curse.”

Neal gives him a look. “That would kinda defeat the purpose. She’s not going to let you do it if she knows about it, that’s the whole reason why we even had to—” He clenches his jaw.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look, man, I’m sorry, all right? I don’t like it any more than you do. But I’m asking you. Please. Just do it. Take her magic.”

The world is whirling around him, making no sense. “Why?”

“We both know she’s better off without all that magic crap,” Neal says. “We both know what it does. It destroyed my dad. It killed my mom—“

“Rumplestiltskin did that,” Killian snaps.

“Because of magic!” Neal fires back.

“So you mean to rob Emma of it, and then what?” Killian demands.

“Then we can be a family,” Neal says, a pleading, intent look on his face. “We can get the hell away from, from all of _this_ , and live a normal life. Together.”

For a moment, Killian understands. He knows what it is to want a family—to want your family _back_. He can’t imagine what it must be like, to have a son and the woman you love still living, but out of reach all the same. And he owes Neal in this regard, there’s no question about that.

But then he thinks of Emma—the edgy look she gets on her face around Neal, the confession of his past betrayal. The way she used her magic to save her father’s life.

“Have you asked her if that’s what she wants?”

“It _is_ what she wants,” Neal insists. “All this Savior stuff’s making her think she’s gotta stay here and take care of everyone, but she doesn’t.”

Killian strives for calm. Neal is no villain. Maybe he can still talk him out of this. “Then tell her. Let her choose it, if she wants to.”

Neal sighs. “She won’t. That’s the whole point, don’t you see? It’s magic. It twists you, and what you want, and—“

“No,” Killian says, “it doesn’t. Your father uses that as an excuse. It isn’t magic, it’s power, and it’s gone to his head. Emma isn’t like that.”

“Damn it, Killian!” Neal bursts out. “I’m _asking_ you. I already lost my family once, because of you, and now I’m asking you to make it right. I just want my family back.”

That isn’t fair. He played a part, yes, but he was never the reason why Milah left, he was the means. He wasn’t the reason why Rumplestiltskin abandoned his son. He would _never_ —

Killian’s heart begins to hammer, his breath coming fast, anger rolling over him in waves. “This won’t make it right,” he grits out. “This isn’t—do you really think she wants to leave her parents? Her family?”

“What about _my_ family?” Neal demands. “Her parents sent her through a damn portal, just like my dad let me go. We’ve got a new family now. She just needs to—she just needs to _see_ it.”

“And you think she’ll _see_ it when her magic is taken from her, when she loses something else to betrayal?” The thought of it alone is enough to make him furious. They planned this, Neal and Zelena. He thought that she used magic to gain insight into his past with Neal, to manipulate him into that damn vow, but Neal must have told her. They planned all of it, to hurt Emma—because he knows, he knows, it will hurt—and they mean to use him to do it.

“She’ll see it when she’s free of it!” Neal insists. “She’ll see it’s for the best, that we’re better off without all this—all this crap!”

“You can’t go making other people’s choices for them, boy,” Killian snaps, his voice rising.

“Don’t call me boy!” Neal snaps back. “You’re not my father!”

“Damn right I’m not!” Killian yells. “If I were, I’d have raised you better than this!”

For a moment, they just glare at each other. Neal is breathing hard, and Killian is struggling to hold onto his temper. The darkness is rising up inside him, coiling his hand into a fist, wanting to punch, stab, hurt.

He hates that Neal has dragged it back to the surface. He’s been trying so damn hard to leave it behind.

“I should’ve known,” Neal presses out after another moment of tense, glaring silence. “I should’ve known better than to think you’d actually want to help me.”

“See, that’s your mistake,” Killian says, fury whipping his thoughts, sharp and fast and cold. His voice matches it, every word like a knife. “You think this is all about you. You want me to help _you_. And you think you have the right to decide what’s best for her and just do it, her wishes notwithstanding. But it’s not about you, Bae, it’s about her. _Always_ her.”

He leaves the room then, knowing that if he stays any longer he’s likely to start throwing punches.

He gives into the impulse once he’s out in the hall, his fist impacting with a doorjamb a few steps along. His knuckles sting. The darkness recedes a little.

Killian stands there, still breathing hard, his thoughts racing.

He can’t tell Emma. Not straight out, anyway. He’s tested the curse’s limits—he can’t talk about it, he can’t write a message about it, he can’t so much as hint at it. He thought about leaving the notes he took for Belle to find, but he couldn’t do it, and they’re too vague to be of much use anyway.

But there has to be a way around it. He’s got centuries of finding loopholes and making crooked deals under his belt. Meanwhile, Emma can detect lies, and reads him better than is comfortable sometimes, and she’s smart as a whip to boot. He’ll find a way to get the idea across. He has to.

He takes out his phone. Emma probably has other things on her mind right now, so he doesn’t want to call, but there’s another function. Belle was using it earlier. There’s a way to use this phone to send messages, and she or Ruby can explain to him how it’s done.

Mind made up, he strides down the stairs and back into the diner.  It’s almost empty—it seems that everyone has scattered back out to patrol duty, or whatever it is that the dwarves do in their spare time. Belle is sitting at the counter, chatting to Ruby.

Granny scowls at Killian as he strides in, her eyes sliding behind him as if looking for Neal. “You okay?”

He’s been getting that question a lot lately. He still isn’t used to it. “Aye.”

“Yeah? What’s with the yelling?”

He searches her face for clues that she might have overheard something about the curse, but it doesn’t appear to be the case. “A difference of opinion.”

“Let me guess. Emma?”

The darkness stirs again. He forces it back. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

“Hey, I’m not thinking anything.” Granny holds up both hands. Then she smirks. “But if I _did_ , I’d be betting on you.”

“You shouldn’t,” he growls. “Excuse me. Ladies?”

Ruby and Belle both look up.

“I wonder if you might assist me with something.” He holds up the phone. “I’m told this device can send messages—not the phone call thing, I know how to do that.”

“Texts,” Ruby says, nodding. “Yeah. You just open the menu and there should be an icon there, like a little envelope.”

She says it like it’s obvious, like all of those words are obvious in their meaning. He feels stupid—a rare occurrence, and not one he cares for. “What menu?”

“He wasn’t cursed,” Belle says. “So he doesn’t know—here, let me see.”

She beckons him over, taking the phone from him and holding it so they can both see the screen. He doesn’t follow what she does, but the screen changes, and changes again, and then Belle holds it out to him. “There,” she says. “That’s the message box. See the letters on the buttons? That’s how you write. So if you want an e, you press the 3 twice, and so on. And if you make a mistake, just hit this button and it’ll erase the last letter you wrote.”

“Bloody hell.”

But he takes the phone, and he figures out how to hold it while using his thumb to hit the buttons, and after a few attempts, manages to produce the word “dear”.

At that point, he has to ask Belle if there’s a way to make a capital letter, and re-writes the word accordingly.

Then he types an S, and pauses, reconsidering. _Swan_ seems a little cold, as an address in a letter. Proper etiquette demands _Miss Swan_ , but he can see Emma’s scoff at that, and anyway, they’re long past that formality. She’s never addressed him as “Captain”.

He erases the S, and types “Emma”.

And considers the rest of the message he has still to write, and wishes that he could just send her a note by carrier pigeon instead.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma still has very little knowledge of magical theory, but she’s finding out that practice does, occasionally, yield insights. For example, she’s been learning that food really helps with replenishing energy when you’ve worn yourself out poofing across town and saving your father’s life.

Especially sugary food. Which is a blessing in many ways.

As she devours the fifth pastry Granny sent home with them, she wonders idly how many calories you burn with one poof.

 Maybe that’s how Regina stays in shape.

“You’re looking better,” Snow says softly. She’s sitting at the table, peeling potatoes for dinner, though her mind doesn’t seem to be on the task. It’s taking a long time.

“I feel better,” Emma says, saying the words without guilt for once, because they’re true. The hot chocolate helped. The pastries are helping more. “I think cake might be the perfect food for when you’ve overdone it with magic. Lucky me, huh?”

Snow laughs. “I can see where Henry got his sweet tooth.”

Emma smiles. Granny supplied Henry with donuts, too, but Regina intercepted them—for after dinner, she said, not moved by Henry’s pout. Emma supposes it’s the responsible-parent thing to do.

Maybe it’s just as well that she’s splitting that role with Regina.

David emerges from the bathroom, now wearing a soft navy sweater and looking a lot warmer, his hair still damp from the shower. “That’s better,” he says, his eyes finding Emma. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she says, for what feels like the hundredth time since their little adventure.

“If you want the shower—”

“I’m fine.” _One hundred and one_. “I’m warm. You’re the one who got attacked and walked around without a coat on.”

“Yeah, but all that magic... Blue did say—”

“The food helps,” Emma says, not really interested in what Blue had to say about it. She’s already had enough berating from Regina, and she’s starting to think that whatever rules Blue and Regina and the others are used to, they don’t apply to her. She hates the thought—it sounds conceited, dangerously so—but it keeps popping into her head, despite her best efforts. “Seriously, David, I’m okay.”

“If food helps, and you want to help,” Snow says before he can speak again, “you could make yourself useful with dinner.”

David opens his mouth, looks at Emma, then back at his wife, then gives a half-shrug and nods cheerfully. “Sure.”

Emma’s phone chimes, making her heart skip a beat. But it’s a message tone, not a call, so probably not an emergency.

She doesn’t expect the name on the screen.

“It’s from Kil—Hook,” she says, too surprised to stop the words from leaving her mouth. Since when does he know how to text?

“Oh?” David asks, far too casually. “What does he want?”

Emma shrugs as she opens the message.

_Dear Emma, may I speak with you wgen you havea moment? It is not urgent. Yours sincerely, Killian Jones_

She fails to smother her smile, or the quiet laugh that escapes her, in spite of all the worry. It makes sense—he’s bound to be used to writing letters, not texts, and text talk is probably bad form anyway—but god, it’s so _typical_. And she can’t stop imagining him sitting there, scowling down at the flip phone screen while he presses the letters, one by one.

“He uh, wants to talk to me, apparently,” she tells David.

“About what?”

“David,” Snow says, her tone subtly warning.

“I’m just curious,” David says defensively. “He _just_ saw us all an hour ago.”

“He didn’t say,” Emma tells him, but the question has her heart beating a little faster. Hook has never sent her a text before, nor asked to speak to her like this. And now that the shock of the attack on her parents has subsided, and her exhaustion has lifted, she’s back to where she was before—wondering what’s up with him.

She can’t think of anything else he’d want to talk to her about. Every instinct she’s honed over the years is shouting at her that this is it. This has to be it.

She hits “reply”, but hesitates. She is _not_ writing him a formal letter in return. But shooting off a quick “be there in a few” seems inadequate, somehow.

For a moment, she imagines trying it—how do they do it in Austen novels?

_Dear Captain Hook, I shall be delighted to bestow the honour of my company upon you as soon as I am able. Yours sincerely, Emma Swan_

Yeah, no.

_Okay, sure,_ she taps out instead. _See you in a bit._

“Guess I’ll head back to Granny’s,” she says, getting to her feet.

“What, now?” David asks. “It’s getting dark. I’ll come with you.”

Emma tilts her head at him. “I can drive to Granny’s by myself.”

“I know, I just mean... you know. You’re the one who said we should head out in pairs.”

“On _patrol_ ,” Emma says impatiently. His concern is touching, it really is, but she has a feeling that this is more about Hook than any fear of flying monkeys attacking her in the centre of town, in a moving vehicle. “I’ll be in the car.”

“Not once you get there,” he points out.

Emma raises her eyebrows. “Once I get there, I’ll have Granny and Ruby and Hook within screaming distance.”

“She has a point, David,” Snow says in a quiet sing-song voice, not looking up from the potatoes. It’s so _Mary Margaret_ that Emma has to smother a smile, grateful for the unexpected backup.

David heaves a sigh. “Fine. Just... be careful.”

“I will,” she assures him, grabbing her coat. “And I won’t stay out too late, _Dad._ Okay?”

She means it as a quip, a little dig at his overprotectiveness, and it hits her too late that it’s real. He _is_ her dad.

On the plus side, it seems to quell whatever misgivings he might have voiced next. He all but grins at her. “Okay.”

“See you later,” Snow calls, before Emma makes a quick escape from the loft and what she just said.

_Dad._

It doesn’t sound as weird as it should. That’s probably a bad sign.

But that’s another issue for another day. Right now, she’s going to talk to Hook, and she’s going to need her wits about her for that. Pulling the hood over her head, she heads back out into the darkening evening.

When she gets to Granny’s, the diner has begun to fill again with the evening’s patrons. No one takes much notice of Emma as she slips inside and sweeps a quick look around the room. There’s no sign of Hook.

Granny raises her brows when she asks, but points towards the back. “He went back upstairs. If he’s not there, check the back yard, maybe he’s doing drills.”

“Drills?” Emma repeats, confused.

“Sword drills,” Granny clarifies.

“Right,” Emma says, feeling a little stupid. She probably shouldn’t be surprised that a good swordsman would practice. She’s just never thought about it.

And she really doesn’t need to start thinking about it right now.

“Thanks,” she says, and weaves her way through the crowd towards the hallway at the back.

She hears voices as she walks along the hallway, and pauses. A woman’s voice—Belle, she thinks. And she remembers that Hook is not the only resident of the B&B. Belle and Neal are staying here, too, and Neal is the last person she wants to run into right now.

A man’s voice speaks, then he laughs—Neal.

That makes it unlikely that Hook is hanging out in the living room, so she moves past it as quietly as she can, and makes her way to Hook’s room.

As soon as she knocks, she thinks better of it. He’s going to make some kind of comment about her coming a-knocking on his bedroom door, and she’s going to have to smother a smile and fire back.

But no, she reminds herself. They’re not doing that anymore, these days.

And she doesn’t miss it. She doesn’t.

(She does.)

The door opens. Hook is standing behind it, hair in damp disarray, dressed in a shirt and pants and nothing else. Apparently, David’s not the only one who took a shower to warm up.

“Swan,” he says, surprised.

“Hey.” Emma tucks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, trying not to notice the way his shirt is gaping open, or the fact that he’s wearing stockings and suspenders and it’s not nearly as ridiculous as it should be. “You said you wanted—I got your text.”

“Aye.” He reaches up to scratch at his neck, eyes flicking this way and that. “Apologies, I wasn’t expecting you so promptly. Are you feeling better?”

“I was coming by anyway,” she says quickly, the lie coming out before she can rethink it. “And yeah, I’m fine. Figured I’d just see what’s up.”

“Ah.” He seems at a loss, still looking at the hall behind her, as if he’s looking for an escape.

No, Emma realises, not an escape: a solution.

Well, that one’s obvious, even if he’s apparently reluctant to suggest it. She gestures into his room. “You gonna let me in, or what?”

His eyebrows rise, but he steps back. “By all means, come in.”

It’s awkward. Of course it is. She’s alone with Killian Jones, in his bedroom; she can see his boots tucked up against the wall, a spare shirt on the floor near the bathroom door, his sword belt and scabbard lying on the bed.

“Please sit.” He’s gesturing to the only chair in the room, an ornate wooden thing that will only make this more awkward. It would be a lot easier if he’d flirt with her. She knows how to deal with flirty Hook, and the pauses and silences might be full of tension, but never awkward. She didn’t realise just how much she’s grown used to him doing that, putting her at ease, sweeping past the tension with a smile or a stupid comment.

For once, it seems, it’s up to her to break the ice.

Emma gives herself a push and sits on the edge of the bed instead, bouncing a little. “I’m good here. Come on. Talk to me. What’s up?”

“Ah, nothing,” he says. “That is—I wanted to talk to you, but I don’t quite know how. I haven’t really thought it through, I’m afraid.”

For a brief, panicked moment, Emma thinks that this is about feelings. But it can’t be. He’s talked about feelings before. He didn’t look like this in the Echo Cave. His eyes are flitting around like a skittish bird’s, unsure and unable to settle. Without his coat and boots and usual swagger, he looks oddly vulnerable.

It’s not like him at all, and she hates it. The world feels off-kilter somehow.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Talk about what?”

“I realise that my behaviour the past few days has been...” He breaks off, face a study in frustration as he searches for the right words.

“Weird?” Emma suggests.

“As you say.” He runs his hand through his still-damp hair, making it stick up more than it already did. He seems to give himself a mental shake, seizing the chair and sitting down, his eyes finally settling on hers. “I apologise if I’ve made you—if I’ve upset you in any way.”

“You didn’t,” she assures him, even though it’s not quite true. She’s never liked apologies, and she definitely doesn’t like them coming from Hook. It feels wrong.

It’s also another reminder that she hasn’t been the best at appreciating things—okay, people—lately. Including him, or maybe even especially him. “Did—have I done something?”

“What? No.” He shakes his head. “No, I told you, I’m not angry.”

“Or upset?” she insists.

He smiles for the first time, and it’s a wistful thing that tears at her heart just a little bit. She wants to banish that look from his face. She wants to fix this—whatever it is. She wants to see a real smile again.

“No, love,” he says. “I’m perfectly fine.”

_Liar_ , she thinks. It’s written all over his face. And even if it weren’t, she’s seen Killian Jones in deflection mode when he doesn’t want to talk about something, and this is not it.

But he called her here for a reason. She just needs to get clever and figure it out.

 

*  *  *

 

He should have thought this through. He should have formulated a better plan—not that what he has is much of a plan. More like a spontaneous idea fuelled by desperation and vague hope.

And now Emma Swan is in his room, sitting on his bed, and Killian can think of a million things he wants to say to her, but no way to say any of it.

“Killian.”

The name hits him like a lightning bolt. He spent years establishing himself as Hook, to the point where barely anyone remembered his true name—and if they did, they certainly never used it.

He wishes she’d use it more often.

“What’s going on?” Emma says. She looks worried, peering at him with that Swan determination he’s come to know well. She’s on the hunt. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Everything is fine,” he says, helpless. He keeps his eyes on hers, though, silently willing her to see him. Hear him. Read him, like he knows she can.

“You’re lying,” Emma says. “I know you’re lying. What I don’t know is why.”

Killian’s thoughts race. He knows Emma, how she thinks, what she fears. If she starts suspecting him of treachery, they’ll both be in even deeper trouble.

If he were being evasive on purpose, he’d try to deflect. Charm his way out of it. Reassure her.

“Why—” He can’t even ask her why he’d lie about something like that. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Still don’t believe you.”

He’s suddenly reminded of another time and place where she faced him like this, with that determined look on her face, not buying his lies.

And that brings with it another thought. He can still flirt—that’s what Zelena wants, after all.

“You know me so well, Swan,” he tells her, throwing in a smile for good measure. “You can read me like a book, can’t you?”

She glares at him. But there’s something beneath it, a little gleam of calculation, like she’s thinking fast, too. _See me._

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” She narrows her eyes. “Can’t tell me?”

“Of course not,” he lies, the words coming easily and not from himself. _No trickery_ , he thinks savagely. So much for promises. He grinds his teeth, and pictures Zelena’s demise.

“Right.” Emma looks thoughtful. “Y’know, Regina mentioned something to me earlier. Have you ever heard of a geis?”

The sudden change in subject throws him. “No.”

“It’s a magic thing,” she says. “Makes it so you can’t talk about something. Kind of like a curse. So if there was something you wanted to tell someone... you can’t.”

Something deep inside him has gone very, very still. “Interesting.”

“Right?” Emma agrees. “And then you called me here, to talk. Except you’re not talking.”

Killian’s heart gives a leap. She’s noticed. She’s thought about it. He doesn’t need to get her to try and figure it out—she’s already right there with him.

“Come on,” she says, determination in her face now. “There must be something. You’re good with words, aren’t you?”

“I’m delighted that you think so,” he says, his mind still racing. He needs to meet her halfway somehow.

He fights for words. He wants to tell her she’s right, that he’s a threat to her, that his kiss is a threat to her.

The words won’t come.

But he did it yesterday, didn’t he? He yelled it, for all the world to hear—he’d rather kiss a flying monkey than her. A lie, of course, but—

Maybe that’s it. Maybe he can lie. He can flirt, and he can tell her lies, as long as they aren’t meant as clues. The intent matters—a trap of his own making, the words bound by his own intentions.

He thinks back to yesterday’s argument. He was annoyed, the words riding on the wave of anger that swept through him. He didn’t want to kiss her. She has rejected him already, she gloated over him as he lay injured, she knocked him out and tied him up, she bested him and left him without a backwards glance.

She wants to leave. He’d have to be mad, to care for a woman like that. To want a woman like that.

“I’d rather kiss a flying monkey,” he bursts out.

Emma gives him a look that would be comical if he weren’t so caught up in desperation and hope and anger, anger, anger. He rallies, the pirate’s smirk coming to his lips unbidden. “A one-time thing, didn’t you say?”

“Are you—I never even—I didn’t offer,” she sputters.

“Good,” he retorts. “Then we have an accord.”

She clambers off the bed and to her feet, furious. “Trust me, I am not going to kiss you,” she grits out. “I don’t know where you even got the _idea_ that—”

Her eyes narrow again. He can almost see her thinking.

His anger is leaking away again, weak in the face of the truth. Mad he may be, a threat he may be, but he cares. He wants. Oh, he wants.

And that, he can tell her, too—another clue, but not a clue. Just the truth. “Speaking of which, do you recall what I told you, back in Neverland?”

He can tell that she knows exactly what he means, though she doesn’t nod.

“I meant it,” he goes on. “I still do. I haven’t given up.”

Emma stares at him. For a moment, they stay like that, looking at each other, he desperate, she shifting from outrage to understanding. “Kiss,” she breathes, her eyes flicking to his lips in a way that has him cursing Zelena thrice more. “That’s it, isn’t it? Don’t bother,” she adds before he can say anything. “You can’t tell me. I got it.”

He wants to hug her. He wants to grin at her and tell her that she’s bloody brilliant. But he can’t, because that would be a confirmation, and he can’t reign in his emotions enough right now to trick the geis or whatever his damn affliction is called.

Even so, relief is cascading through him. She knows. Not all of it, but enough to know what to avoid. At least he no longer has to worry about that.

“I’ll tell you this,” he says instead, also getting to his feet. “I’m on your side, Swan. No matter what.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, and he can tell that she knows it for the truth in the way she smiles, small but bright. “Good.”

Then she steps back, towards the door. “I should—unless there was something else?”

“No, no,” he says. “Thank you for—for coming.”

He hates that he can’t say more, hates that he can’t tease her about being here with him. It feels so damn formal now, all the ease between them fallen prey to Zelena’s curse and his helplessness.

Emma hesitates, her eyes on his.

“You should’ve said something,” she says. “I mean, I know you can’t, but—this. You should’ve done _this_.”

“It’s not your problem,” he says.

Fire flashes in her eyes. “Like hell it’s not.”

He runs a distracted hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his failure pressing down on him again. She knows, at least. But even so, he can’t help feeling like he should have found a way to fix it himself. Set sail, perhaps, rather than add to her problems.

Her expression is that familiar mix of closed and searching, her mouth set, her chin up. Her eyes soften a little as she looks at him—not with pity, but with something like sympathy. He’s seen that look on her face before. It’s the look she gets when she wants to fix something.

She shakes her head.

And then she hugs him, all but falling into him, solid and warm and so damn _right_ that he feels his eyes sting. He catches her automatically, wrapping one arm around her and resisting the urge to pull her closer to him. Her hair smells like coconut and something sweet, a faint trace of cinnamon clinging to her as always. He leans his head back a bit, just to make sure his lips don’t brush against her, and squeezes his eyes shut.

“We’ll fix this,” she says, her voice muffled against his chest. “Don’t say anything, okay? It’s gonna be all right.”

His eyes are still stinging. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just tightens his hold slightly, his hand splayed across her back, his lips pressed together.

“I just want you to know that,” Emma goes on. Then she pulls away, and he lets go, though he knows that the feel of her will stay imprinted on him for the rest of the day. “Okay?”

“Aye, love.” To his relief, his voice comes out more or less normal.

She smiles at him, and it’s strange, to see that familiar determination behind a smile, not a scowl. Something warm seems to be expanding inside his chest, crowding his heart, which is beating fast.

“Okay,” she says, nodding as she steps back. She makes as if to cross her arms, changes her mind and shoves her hands into her coat pockets instead. “So I’ll uh, see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He bows his head and dares a smile of his own. It feels easier now, like a weight has lifted from the corners of his mouth. “I look forward to it.”

Her mouth twists in that wry way she always has whenever he says something affectionate. “Yeah, okay. Night, Hook.”

“Good night, Swan,” he says, still not quite over his shock. She pulls the door open and doesn’t look back as she walks through it. It snicks softly shut, and he’s alone.

He sinks back down onto his chair, and rubs a hand over his eyes. His fingers come away wet.

 It’s been a long time since he’s felt like anyone is on his side. He’s struck up alliances, of course, but they haven’t included trust, or any kind of concern for him outside of what he could deliver.

But he gave up his quest for vengeance. And while it’s been one danger after another, he’s made it through okay so far.

Maybe he isn’t a lost cause, after all.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma all but sneaks down the hallway, but it does her no good. As she’s heading for the stairs, she runs right into Neal. Guilt plummets into her stomach, followed closely by irritation. She has nothing to feel guilty about.

“Emma,” he says, and his eyebrows shoot up as he glances past her, over her shoulder. He smiles that uncertain, this-can’t-be-what-I-think-it-is-right smile of his. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s nothing, no possible reason for her to be here, aside from one. “I uh, dropped by to see Hook. Check on him. After the attack, you know.”

Neal tilts his head, and she swears that she can _see_ the wrong impression there. “Right. Well. Is he okay?”

“Far as I can tell, yeah,” she says, as business-like as she can manage.

“And you?” Neal asks. “I know Blue said your magic...”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, and thinks that maybe she should just tattoo the words on her forehead so she can point to it whenever people ask. “It’s all good.”

Neal’s jaw clenches, and he looks down at the ground like he’s trying to hide it. “Great,” he says. “Well. I don’t suppose you, uh, wanna get a drink, or anything?”

“I need to get back,” she says, and for the first time, she’s glad of the whole flying-monkey situation. “Before David sends out a search party.”

Neal’s eyes might have flashed with an odd darkness for the briefest moment; but it’s probably just weird shadows, in the dim light of the hall. “Right,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah,” she says, relieved he’s not insisting or making this into a whole thing. “See you.”

She wonders briefly what that was about—Neal asking after her magic has to be a first—but her mind wanders almost immediately back to Hook.

Finally, finally, the uncharacteristic hesitation and all that tired misery makes sense. She almost wants to punch him for being so goddamn stubborn, but she can’t quite manage to be mad at him for not trying to tell her sooner.

It’s not like she’s ever encouraged him to open up.

The memory of his arms around her lingers, like she knew it would. She probably shouldn’t have hugged him. But he looked so damn lost, and weary, and she’s been fighting back the urge to comfort him for days now, and she thinks she left him looking a little more hopeful.

And she shouldn’t care about that, probably, but damn it, she does. He’s been all kinds of helpful to her. The least she can do is return the favour.

She still doesn’t know what exactly is wrong, but it’s got to be some kind of curse. And she knows that it involves kissing, or makes it dangerous to kiss him, or something. That’s a start. Not the start she’d have wanted, all things considered, but it’s not like she can be picky.

She has a start, and she’ll figure out the rest from there.

Operation Knightley is definitely on.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> … in which Emma’s detective efforts take a turn for the awkward, and Killian discovers a new kind of hell.

Emma brushes off her parents’ questions when she gets back to the loft, mind whirring too much to face the concept of another conversation. She needs to process everything first.

She can tell that David wants to push the matter, but Snow lays a hand on her husband’s arm and insists that Emma needs to have some dinner, and then rest. It’s something Mary Margaret would have done, and Emma is grateful. David presses his lips together and challenges Henry to a rematch in some Xbox game, which successfully distracts Henry from asking any questions about Operation Knightley.

By the time Emma comes down the breakfast the next day, she has a plan.

Not a good plan, or a very concrete plan, but a plan.

“Can you do me a favour?” she asks as David sits down across from her.

He looks surprised, but nods. “Sure.”

“It—” She almost reconsiders. But there are enough lies and half-truths already, and everyone knows that something is up, anyway. “You know I talked to Hook last night. Remember that geis thing Regina mentioned? He’s got one. Or he’s under one, however you say it.”

“What?” Snow’s eyes widen. “How do you know?”

“Like in the stories!” Henry is excited.

“I guess,” Emma says. “He wanted to tell me something, and he couldn’t. And it wasn’t like he usually gets when he’s hiding something.”

“So you’ve just gotta trick it, right?” Henry says, his breakfast forgotten. “You have to figure out a way he can say it, without saying it.”

“We—sort of did that,” Emma hedges. “But it’s hard to say anything specific if you can’t actually say it, you know?”

“Maybe he can write it down?”

That hadn’t even occurred to her, but she’s immediately sure that it’s occurred to Hook. “I—no, I don’t think so.”

Henry’s face falls a little. “Oh.”

“That explains his mood, anyway,” Snow muses. “Does it have something to do with you?”

Emma swallows. “It—yeah. We sort of... worked it out. With hints, and you know I can tell when he’s lying, and so—but I don’t know anything specific, I just know he’s in some kind of trouble. I need to find out what. So, can you take him with you, on patrol? I need him out of the way.”

“What’re you gonna do?” David asks.

“I’m gonna go into the B&B and see if I can find anything that’ll clue me into what’s going on,” Emma says. It’s not a great plan. In fact, she’s quite sure that digging through a pirate captain’s things is one of the worst plans she’s ever come up with. She isn’t even sure what she’s hoping to find. She just knows she has to start somewhere, and she doesn’t have any other leads.

“Can I help?” Henry asks. “I wanna help.”

Emma’s immediate instinct is _no_ , but she thinks better of it. It’s perfectly safe, and she knows that Henry feels left out and wants to contribute. And come to think of it...

“Yeah, I think you can, actually,” she tells him. “You hung out with Hook and Belle at Granny’s. Did you notice anything... odd? Anything he did or said?”

Henry frowns. “Not really. He was just grumpy, he didn’t really talk. Belle let me help, but when I asked Killian he just said it was fine and he could manage. He wouldn’t even let me look at the journals.”

“What journals?” Emma asks.

“He wouldn’t let me _look_ ,” Henry repeats, in a tone that reminds her that he literally just told her this. “So I don’t know. Some of Mr. Gold’s stuff.”

Emma bites her lip. It could be nothing. But Hook was ensconced in that room for several days, doing research, with a ton of magical books while dealing with a magical problem.

He’s a loner, self-reliant to a fault, slow to trust and even slower to admit he needs help. He’s bound to have been trying to figure out a solution to this, and turning to the convenient pile of magic books would be a logical first step.

It could be nothing. But she’s not exactly swimming in leads.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “You think you can remember which books he was looking at?”

“Sure,” Henry says. “Why?”

“Because he might have been looking for information about whatever is wrong with him,” Snow says, sounding like a penny just dropped. “To try and fix it himself.”

“That sounds like him,” David agrees, and he looks cautiously optimistic all of a sudden. “That might be a lead, right?”

“It’s worth checking out,” Emma says carefully, refusing to get any hopes up. “Okay, kid, looks like you and me are going to Granny’s.”

“And we’ll persuade Hook to tag along with us,” Snow says.

“Why do you always call him Hook?” Henry asks.

Emma looks at him, surprised. “That’s his name.”

“No, his _name’s_ Killian,” he says, in that exasperated pre-teen tone he gets sometimes now. “Captain Hook is his villain name. Like the Evil Queen. Right? It’s just... you don’t call Mom _Evil Queen_ anymore.”

Emma sees her parents exchange a startled look, and knows exactly how they feel. She’s never thought about it that way, and she’s sure that neither have Snow or David. Trust Henry to do it for them.

Granted, it’s a little different, Emma reminds herself, maybe a little defensively. They all knew her as Regina first.

_Killian Jones. But most people have taken to calling me by my more colourful moniker..._

Snow catches her eye, raising her eyebrows. Emma raises her own, along with her shoulders.

“Right,” Snow says, her voice carefully casual. “We’ll bring _Killian_ along on patrol, then.”

Emma nods, trying not to get distracted wondering about what name Hook might prefer. He’s in her phone as _Killian_ , and he didn’t seem to mind that, but even so, it feels a little... personal. “Okay. Good.”

She almost tells them good luck and leaves it at that, then remembers who she’s dealing with. “And try not to be obvious about it, okay? Tell him it’s because of the attack yesterday and that you could really use his help.”

David nods. “Got it.”

“And uh—” She hesitates, but she knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t say it. “Maybe don’t mention me. If you can. At least not—at least keep the, the overprotective dad thing to a minimum, okay? He’s got enough to worry about.”

David’s eyebrows rise, but Snow nods and gives Emma a look that says she’ll handle it. “Of course. Don’t worry. We’ll keep him out of the way, and you’ll figure this out. It’ll be fine.”

Emma isn’t sure she believes her. But it’s nice to hear it, all the same.

 

*  *  *

 

Neal hasn’t seen Killian since the man yelled at him and stormed out, which is probably for the best, all things considered. He still has a strong urge to punch him in his stupid, infuriating, proud face. Centuries of piracy, no qualms selling him to Pan, but now, when Neal actually needs him to be a little bit selfish, he gets this twisted notion of honour in his head.

And Neal can’t seem to forget their conversation, either.

_I’d have raised you better than that._

Well, they’ll never know, will they?

He’s heading down to an early breakfast when he runs straight into Killian. The pirate is dressed in shirt and breeches, hair mussed, face flushed, swaggering along the B&B’s hallway as though he owns it. His sword is belted at his side, and Neal knows he’s been down in the yard, practicing. Morning sword drills were a staple of his life on the _Jolly Roger_ , trying to copy Killian’s movements while wiping the sleep from his eyes.

_Up and at ‘em, lad..._

Neal manages a tight nod and makes to pass him, but Killian comes to a stop, putting out his hand. “Neal. Wait a moment.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Neal growls.

But Killian doesn’t look angry, nor does he pick up last night’s tirade. “I only want to make sure you’re all right.”

That gives him pause. “What?”

Killian shakes his head. “I apologise for losing my temper,” he says, a little stiffly. He still looks tired, though he’s carrying himself with his usual confidence again, and under his dark brows, his eyes seem a little lighter. “It occurred to me that if I’m a pawn... well, I might not be the only one. Are you all right?”

It takes a moment for his meaning to register, but when it does, it’s clear—and startling. Neal stares. Killian thinks _he_ , _Neal_ , is under Zelena’s thumb? “I’m fine.”

“If you’re in trouble,” Killian goes on, his eyes intent on Neal, “you can tell me. I can help. Or perhaps Emma, if you aren’t willing to confide in me—”

Neal wants to smack that stupid, patronising expression off his face. “You already know how you can help me.”

Killian shifts his weight, turning his head to cast a beseeching look upwards, a familiar exasperation in every movement. “I meant if you’re being coerced. Neal. I know you. This isn’t you.”

“Right,” Neal says, making no effort to disguise the bitterness or the anger in his voice. He’s sick of his wants and opinions being discarded and ignored. His father terrorised the whole village for his sake, insisting that it was for the best even as Neal begged him not to. Killian lied to him and manipulated him, supposedly for his own good. All he ever wanted was to be left alone, but no: his father made Regina cast the Dark Curse and tracked him down.

And if he does want something... it’s immediately questioned. He glares at Killian. “Y’know, just because I don’t agree with you doesn’t mean I’m being _coerced_. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve got a mind of my own.”

Killian’s eyes darken, just like Neal knew they would. Captain Hook rearing up, never far from the surface. How can Emma not see it? “I’m sorry, I just have a hard time believing that you’d willingly side with the woman who attacked your son!”

Neal rolls his eyes. “Henry was perfectly safe. She wouldn’t—”

“It didn’t bloody well look like it!” Killian growls.

For the briefest moment, fear chases a shiver of guilt through him. Killian has that look about him, the fierce, protective one... but it’s a lie, Neal reminds himself. It means nothing. It won’t stop him turning on you at the drop of a hat.

Henry is safe. Zelena has assured him of that, and he has much more reason to trust her.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Well, none of that would’ve happened if _you’d_ just done your damn job.”

Killian’s throat works, but nothing makes it out. Apparently, he can’t talk about it even to Neal, who already knows what’s up. Frustrated, he leans back, then takes a deep breath, clearly struggling for calm. “Allow me to reiterate,” he says, every word careful and controlled and fake-calm, “that if you _are_ in trouble, I’m here to help you.”

The penny drops. “You are so full of it,” Neal snaps, renewed anger blazing in his chest. “You think you can apologise and smooth everything over so you get to be the good guy, so you can tell Emma you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Killian’s glare is impressive, even now that they’re almost the same height. Neal has never feared him, not even when he only knew him as Captain Hook, but he can see why other people do. “This is not about Emma, it’s about you.”

“Sure it is,” Neal spits. “You don’t give a damn about me.”

Some of the fire dies from Killian’s expression, and he looks tired again. “Aye, lad, I do,” he says heavily. “Believe it or not, I’m concerned about you. And your boy, too, whatever you may think. Just keep it in mind, that’s all.”

With another nod, he walks past Neal and heads back to his room. Leaving Neal standing there, alone, feeling that weird mix of fear and guilt again.

He chases it away with anger. Killian can say what he likes. Neal already knows he can talk a good game. But he’s not a kid anymore. He knows what he’s doing. He’s the one in control here, he’s got a plan, and it’s going to work.

“I don’t need your help, _pirate_!” he snarls, not sure whether Killian hears it or not, not even sure whether he means for him to.

When he gets down to the diner, Ruby gives him a funny look as she takes his breakfast order. He wonders how much she and Granny overheard—even though he knows the geis on Killian makes it impossible for them to overhear anything about _that_. Zelena bemoaned the lack of time she had to cast it, but evidently, she did a good job in spite of the time constraints.

He’s just finished his eggs and bacon when the door opens, and Snow and David walk through it. They both acknowledge him with a smile, though David’s looks strained, as usual.

“Is Hook around?” Snow asks after she’s exchanged greetings with everyone.

“I haven’t seen him leave, so he’s probably upstairs,” Granny volunteers.

“Great.” Snow takes David’s hand and leads him towards the door to the B&B.

Neal glares at his half-finished coffee. Of course they’re here for Killian. The man is slowly winning everyone over, by the looks of it.

_I’m concerned about you._

_Liar_ , Neal reminds himself firmly. And tries to ignore the roiling, nagging feeling that seems to have lodged itself somewhere deep in his gut.

 

*  *  *

 

The B&B is quiet as Emma makes her way through the back door and upstairs, feeling once again like a thief. Sneaking around this place is getting to be a habit, one she’s not sure she likes.

“Do I have to keep lookout?” Henry asks in a whisper. “He’s not here, right?”

“Just keep an eye out while I open the door,” Emma whispers back.

Jimmying the lock to Hook’s room takes her all of two minutes, and that only because her hand keeps shaking. It’s been a while since she’s done this, and she keeps remembering that this is Captain Hook’s room she’s breaking into, and needing a moment.

But the lock is like any other lock, and clicks softly open once she’s persuaded it. She pushes the door open, trepidation slowing her movements as she enters.

The room is quiet. Of course it is; there’s no one around. Giving herself a mental kick, Emma looks around. Not much has changed since last night. The sword belt is gone, as is the shirt on the floor; the bed is more or less made, and there’s a pair of stockings lying beside it. Aside from that, the room is devoid of personal touches, the floral-print wallpaper at complete odds with the idea of a pirate captain living here.

“Can I come in now?” Henry whispers behind her.

She steps aside to let him in, and closes the door as silently as she can.

“What’re we looking for?” Henry asks.

“See if you can find his notes,” she says. “And uh, don’t go through anything personal.”

Henry grins, nodding. “Don’t read his diary, got it.”

Emma smothers her own smile at the idea of Hook keeping a diary, and crosses over to the desk. There’s nothing on it except a solitary pen branded with Granny’s diner logo. Going through the drawers also yields nothing. There’s nothing at all to hint at what might be wrong with Hook, nothing to even hint that there’s anyone living in this room.

“Mom!” Henry whisper-yells. “Here.”

Emma whirls around. Henry is crouched by the chair, peeking into the leather satchel that’s slung over the chair back. She recognises it at once. It feels like half a lifetime ago that she saw it swinging at Hook’s side as they climbed the beanstalk together.

“There’s a few things in here,” Henry says, straightening up and holding the satchel out to her. It’s almost empty, save for a pair of ancient-looking journals, some loose paper, and a notepad. “Look.”

Emma pulls the contents out and dumps them on the desk. It’s immediately obvious that these are Rumplestiltskin’s journals and notes, filled with the neat, curling script she remembers from that scroll she found in the dungeon. The notepad is another matter; the writing is different, more sweeping and elaborate, and she knows at once that it’s Hook’s.

She stares down at the top page—and frowns. The writing is there, some of it clearly legible—infuriatingly vague notes like _perhaps interrelated?_ and _appears to have worked again._ But other notes seem to jumble and change before her eyes, the letters making no sense.

Emma rubs at her eyes and turns to Henry. “Can you read this?”

Henry peers down at the notes, frowning. “Yeah—wait. Some of it. This—” he points at various parts of the page, “—is all weird and blurry.”

“Geis,” Emma growls under her breath. He can’t tell them about it, not even by accident, like this. She sighs, laying Hook’s notes aside and turning to Gold’s.

It seems that Rumplestiltskin wasn’t content with just having magic. He experimented, trying out his powers and inventing new spells and curses. Emma flicks through one of the journals, torn between fascination and revulsion. Gold’s obsession with finding his son is clear; there are pages upon pages of experiments and discarded ideas for travelling across realms and bringing magic with him. Imbuing magic in objects, stealing it from others, anchoring it to people or animals... experiments with magical creatures... it goes on.

Emma quickly stops trying to read it all. She flicks forward a few pages—and stops.

Some of the pages have folded-down corners. And Gold doesn’t strike her as the kind of man to fold down the corner to mark a page. Neither does Hook, but in a hurry, and with the property of a man he hates...

“Did you find something?” Henry asks, looking up from where he’s been squinting at the illegible writing in Hook’s notepad, apparently fascinated.

“I dunno,” Emma says slowly. “Someone marked these pages, and I don’t think it was Gold.”

“That was Killian!” Henry exclaims, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “I saw him do it. What’s it say?”

“Let’s find out,” Emma murmurs.

The first page is dedicated to a theory of taking magic from someone else—Emma can’t follow it, since it assumes a lot of knowledge that she doesn’t have. Hook didn’t leave any helpful notes, if indeed he’s the one who marked the page in the first place.

The second one is more concrete: some kind of curse to take magic from another person. Rumplestiltskin seems to have given the matter a great deal of thought. Emma sort of follows the logic of true love causing magic, therefore twisting love might be a way to take it, though she gets utterly lost at the bit about _how_ to twist love. Then there are notes about experiments, various failed attempts—and finally, on the fifth page she tries, a small note in the margin. She can’t read it, Hook’s curving script evading her eyes and making her blink.

She shows it to Henry, just in case. “Can you read that?”

He shakes his head. “No. The geis must be stopping us. But if he left a note there, maybe that part’s important. You know. X marks the spot.”

“Yeah.” Heart beating faster, Emma reads—and stops again.

A curse that works with corrupted love.

Via a kiss.

Emma stares at the page. The words stare back, making a horrible kind of sense.

Surely not. Surely that can’t be it. Corrupted _love_? It’s ridiculous. Hook doesn’t love her. Yeah, there’s an attraction there, and he seems to care, but that’s not love—

Emma shakes her head vigorously, dislodging the thought of it. She’s got bigger issues right now. Anyway, it’s probably not literal. “Love” means a lot of things to a lot of people, after all. Hell, “making love” used to mean writing each other sappy love poetry and flirting a little. And she knows magic users like to be dramatic. “Curse of corrupted caring-about-someone-and-thinking-they’re-pretty” wouldn’t sound nearly as impressive.

She checks the rest of the journal, and flicks through the other one, too. Then she goes back to Hook’s notes and tries to view the little she can see in light of what she’s read.

And it fits. There’s no denying it. The sudden distance, the lack of flirting, not to mention the clear hint he gave her last night about not kissing her—this is the answer. She can feel the truth of it resonate somewhere deep inside her. There’s no other reason he could have been looking this stuff up, and keeping it in his bedroom.

“Corrupted love,” Henry says. He has Rumplestiltskin’s journal in his hand and is perusing it, a frown on his face. “To take someone’s magic away? Is that what you think—”

Emma snatches the journal from his hand. It’s hardly suitable reading material for an eleven-year-old. “Give me that.”

“Hey—” Henry starts, then catches himself and lowers his voice. “What’s going _on_?”

“I’m trying to figure it out,” Emma says.

“If Killian marked those pages, that means it’s important,” Henry insists.

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Emma snaps, and immediately regrets her tone, even before Henry’s face falls. “Sorry, kid, I—sorry. I think I’ve got it figured out. We should get out of here.”

“So what is it?” Henry presses. “Mom!”

Emma begins piling the notes and journals back together, and turns to stuff them back into Hook’s satchel. “I think Zelena cursed him to take my magic away. I’m not sure—”

The door flies open. Emma gasps and jumps up, grabbing Henry’s arm. She pulls him behind her, her other hand going for her gun—

“Emma?”

Regina is standing in the doorway, hands up in magic-blasting stance, a frown on her face. “ _Henry?_ ”

Emma breathes a sigh of relief. “Regina. What the hell—”

“Drop the gun,” Regina says, her voice dark. “Zelena, if this is you—”

“Mom!” Henry bursts out. “It’s us!”

Emma’s mind whirs. “I cut down your apple tree with a chainsaw,” she says quickly. “Who did I beat in the election to become sheriff?”

Regina relaxes. “Sidney,” she says, lowering her hands. “Sorry. I had to make sure.”

Emma nods, inwardly berating herself for not thinking of it. “No, you’re right. Good thinking.”

“What are you doing here?” Regina demands. “Granny called us, saying there’s an intruder.”

Emma can see Granny now, hovering out in the hallway, crossbow at the ready. She winces. “Oops.”

Henry heaves a dramatic sigh, and nudges her. “We have _got_ to get better at sneaking.”

 

*  *  *

 

Granny, it turns out, really called in the cavalry. Blue is there, too, along with Tinkerbell and Ruby and Belle, all of them armed. Emma’s embarrassment flees a little as she realises that she needs to talk to Blue anyway, then returns in full force when she realises what she needs to talk about.

Corrupted love. Kissing Killian Jones. All the topics that are at the bottom of her list of things she’d like to discuss.

But there’s nothing for it. She knows that Hook’s been trying to find a solution to his conundrum... and now she knows what that conundrum is. If he kisses her, her magic will be gone. That’s Zelena’s plan for dealing with the Savior.

It’s creative, she has to admit.

And she has no hope of figuring out what to do about it, not on her own. She doesn’t know the first thing about lifting curses. She doesn’t even understand how they work. Rumplestiltskin’s notes might have been written in Greek, for all the sense they made.

“Well?” Granny demands once the situation has been explained to everyone. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Emma looks at her—and knows that, somehow, Granny has already figured out why she’s here. “Yeah,” she says. “I think so. And I, uh,” she turns to Blue, “need to talk to you.”

They sit in a booth in the now-quiet diner while Regina takes Henry to the counter for a snack and probably a debriefing of her own. Tinkerbell slides into the booth next to Blue, and Emma can’t see a way to send her away again. Much as she hates to admit it, Tink has expertise and insights that Emma does not, and she knows Hook. They’re friends. She deserves to know what’s up.

Still, it’s one of the hardest things Emma has ever done. She tries to keep her tone and her words academic and dispassionate as she explains the situation as she understands it, but the burn of embarrassment is there. Every word feels like she’s dragging it out of herself.

“Corrupted love,” Blue says, her voice soft and musing. “I guess that would work, if you... but I’ve never heard of it actually working. He must have found a way.”

“He did,” Emma says grimly, thinking back to the journal. “So you’re saying it’s possible? To take away someone’s magic?”

“Of course it’s possible,” Tink says. “I lost my wings, remember?”

“Right,” Emma says, feeling like an idiot. “Yeah, sorry—”

“It’s different for us, though,” Tink goes on, turning to Blue. “Isn’t it? I can’t just take Emma’s magic away.”

“No,” Blue agrees. “No, that takes a powerful curse, and a lot of finesse, and...”

“Right,” Emma says quickly, not really interested in pursuing exactly what’s involved in a curse of corrupted love. “So what do we do? How do we break the curse?”

“I have no idea,” Blue says. “If Rumple didn’t say anything about it... I mean, true love’s kiss always works, but in this case we can probably rule that out.”

Tink winces. “Yeah, she can’t kiss him without losing her magic, and if she kisses him, the curse would be over anyway, so that’s kind of pointless.”

Emma really doesn’t like Tink’s implication, nor the casual way she says it, like it’s the natural assumption that Emma would be the one to administer true love’s kiss to Hook. Blue, however, looks startled, as though it didn’t even occur to her that Emma and Hook might be—that Tink’s suggestion might be an option.

“Yes,” Blue says. “That won’t work here. But the magic would have to go somewhere. A curse like this would draw it out of you, Emma, but it won’t destroy it. It can’t. It would just be... detached, so to speak. Which means that I could catch it.”

Emma really doesn’t like the sound of that. On any level. “That’s not really a solution either, is it?”

“It might be your best hope, actually,” Blue says, a light coming into her eyes. “The curse will break as soon as it accomplishes what it’s meant to. And if we can control the consequences, it won’t matter. Your magic will be safe.”

_With me._ She doesn’t say it, but Emma hears it all the same. And Emma immediately shies away from the thought of her magic in someone else’s hands. It’s _hers_.

She checks the thought. Is this what Neal was worried about?

But her magic _is_ hers. As long as it’s hers, she can control it. She doesn’t want Blue to have it.

“Regina might know more about this,” Tink suggests.

Blue huffs out a breath. “I doubt that.”

“Never know until you ask,” Tink says brightly, and before anyone can stop her, she’s left her seat and is making her way over to Regina. Blue watches her go, her expression a subtle mix of concern and reluctance. Emma can’t really blame her. Regina doesn’t exactly have the best history with most people in this town.

Ruby brings Emma a mug of hot chocolate and a bright smile, before sauntering off towards the kitchen.

Blue looks down at the mug, an odd expression on her face. Probably miffed that Ruby didn’t bring her anything, Emma thinks, fighting back an instinctive twinge of guilt at having something when her companion doesn’t. She takes a sip anyway. Warmth spreads through her, dispelling her lingering embarrassment.

Before she can ask Blue if she wants anything, Regina and Tink join them.

Regina is scowling, with that air of impatient superiority she does so well. “I suppose getting rid of him isn’t an option?”

Emma and Tink stare at her. Blue just looks thoughtful, the same careful, on-guard look she always seems to have around Regina.

“What?” Emma asks.

“Get _rid_ of him?” Tink demands.

Regina shrugs. “I’m just saying, if he’s cursed, he’s a liability. He can’t take Emma’s magic if he’s gone. Or locked up. Or whatever.”

Tink raises her eyebrows. “Lock up Captain Hook. Good luck with that. And wherever you send him, Zelena can just get him back.”

“And,” Emma adds, back on balance, “ _I_ sure as hell don’t want to explain to Henry how we resolved Operation—how we solved this problem. Which he knows about. And is worried about. You?”

Regina blows out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. It was just a question. How exactly is he cursed, anyway?”

Tink explains the conundrum, while Emma busies herself with stirring her hot chocolate and avoiding Regina’s eye. And she might lack tact, and a good history with most people in this town, but Regina does know her stuff when it comes to magic.

“It’s possible to catch it,” she says, the frown on her face now a thoughtful one. “You just need a gemstone to anchor it... And you have to be quick, and know what you’re doing. But I’m not sure just letting the curse do its thing is the best idea. Zelena is counting on that.”

“You have a better idea?” Blue asks, her tone one of polite doubt.

“Actually, yes,” Regina retorts. “A curse can usually be lifted by the person who cast it. I might be able to use blood magic to lift it on her behalf.”

Blue raises her eyebrows. “That’s ambitious. It’s hard enough to lift a curse, never mind if you’re doing a balancing act with blood magic.”

“I’m an ambitious woman,” Regina says, not quite glaring at Blue. “I’ll figure it out.”

“What’ll that take?” Emma asks, automatically wary. Regina might know more about magic, but once her ego gets involved, she tends to get reckless.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out,” Regina assures her. “It’ll take me a day or two, but I can do it.”

Emma takes another long swig of her hot chocolate, its warm sweetness combining with cautious optimism to leave her feeling lighter than she has in days. “Sounds great,” she says, and she means it. “Thanks, Regina.”

Regina shrugs off the thanks. “I’ll find a gemstone that’ll work as an anchor, too,” she says. “For a plan B. Just in case. But you should probably just avoid kissing the guy. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

_Wrong._ Emma just about stops herself from saying it. Has Regina _seen_ the man? It’s not like it’s _easy_ to shrug off his flirting, or that intent look in his eyes, or to avoid imagining what it would be like to grab him by the collar and run her hand through his hair and kiss him until they both run out of breath.

Not that she needs to imagine it. She’s done it. And she remembers exactly how it felt, how he sounded, the little noise he made at the back of his throat—

“Yeah,” she says, meeting Regina’s implicit challenge with an even look and the driest tone she can manage. “Right. I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll get to work, then,” Regina says briskly, a familiar gleam in her eyes at the prospect of the challenge. “You’re okay to look after Henry?”

Emma swallows, still trying to shake off the thought of kissing Killian Jones, and finding it to be rather more clingy than usual. “Yeah.”

“Try not to drag him into any more breaking and entering stunts,” Regina says, and sweeps out of the diner.

“I’d better go as well,” Blue says. “I need to get back to work.”

“Right,” Emma says, clearing her throat and taking another sip of her hot chocolate. For probably the first time in her life, she wishes it was cold. The diner seems to have gotten a lot warmer. “Sorry about—well, for dragging you here for nothing.”

Blue gives her a kind smile. “It wasn’t for nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She and Tink leave together, Tink giving Emma a friendly, reassuring smile that makes Emma feel vaguely guilty for her thoughts earlier. Tink has been nothing but nice to her. And yes, she’s friends with Hook and has known him for a long time, and he enjoys her company, but that doesn’t mean anything. It wasn’t Tink he brought up in the Echo Caves, she reminds herself.

Her heart stutters a little at the memory.

It stutters again a short while later, when the door opens and Snow, David and Hook come stomping into the diner, shaking the snow from their coats and hair. They look cold and windswept, their cheeks and noses red. The colour contrasts Hook’s eyes, making them look bluer than ever as they meet hers across the room.

Warmth pulses through her, and she smiles at him, lifting her hand in a little wave. He nods at her, cautious and gruff as he always is these days, though after a moment, he gives in and smiles back. It’s nothing like his usual crooked smirks or wide grins, but it’s enough to make her heart beat a little faster.

They’ve figured it out now. And they’ll fix it. Emma can feel it; it’s buoying her up, warm and light and optimistic for once.

“Hey,” she calls out, still smiling and getting up as her parents and Hook join her at the booth. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” David says. His eyes scan her, asking a silent question. Checking that she’s okay. Always worried. “You?”

“Great,” Emma assures him. “Not a problem.”

“Am I going to find out the reason for all this skulduggery?” Hook asks. He’s got one eyebrow raised and is leaning his head back, looking down at her with a mild expression. Up close, he looks more handsome than ever—he always does, but Emma is usually better at ignoring it.

She’s glad she already took her coat off.

“Skulduggery?” David repeats. Emma turns to Snow, who shrugs, as if to say that she didn’t spill the beans on this one.

“Aye.” Hook makes an impatient motion with his hand, the rings on his fingers catching the light. Emma follows the movement, momentarily distracted by the fluid way his fingers move. “I’ll admit, it took me until we reached the forest to realise that you were diverting me, but I was most definitely _not_ born anywhere close to yesterday.”

Snow and David exchange a look. Emma sighs. They might as well tell him. “We sort of... broke into your room. Henry and me. Don’t worry, we didn’t take anything, or—we were just looking for your notes.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he grins at her—a real grin, this one, edged with pride. “You scoundrel.”

She grins back, almost giddy now with the lightness and warmth in her chest. “That’s your influence.”

He shakes his head, his eyes sparkling in a way she really likes. “I’m not one to shy away from taking credit, love, but I believe you’ve been like this ever since I’ve known you.”

“Yeah?” She sways towards him. Her body feels like it’s humming—with relief, with good humour, with magic. It feels good. It feels like she could do anything, right now. Like touch him. Or kiss him, right on those grinning, sarcastic lips of his. That feels like a great idea.

There’s a voice at the back of her head, reminding her that she’s not supposed to get any closer to him, but she ignores it. It’s just old insecurities, rearing up yet again. It doesn’t matter. They’ll fix it. She _wants_ to be near him, and she’s already spent so much time _not_ being near him.

She licks her lips, a jolt of pure triumph rushing through her when she sees his eyes dip down to her mouth. “I think,” she all but purrs, “you can still teach me a thing or two.”

 

*  *  *

 

Killian feels the grin slip off his face as Emma sidles towards him like some sort of siren. She broke into his room, found his notes, and from the look she gave David, found what she was looking for. She’s figured it out. He’s still caught up in the relief and the pride of it himself, and he assumed that her lighter mood and her smiles were due to that, but there’s a warning bell going off somewhere at the back of his mind.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’s flirting with him. In fact, he does know better, yet he thinks she’s flirting with him anyway. And he’s no stranger to women flirting with him, but this is _Emma Swan_.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you seem to have found what you were looking for.”

“Uh-huh.” She reaches out a hand to smooth it along the collar of his coat. Killian stays perfectly still, his heart beating uncommonly fast, his thoughts tripping over each other. _What the hell_? “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”

There’s a moment, the briefest flash of time, where he almost says yes. He wants to say yes. He wants to let her drag him off to wherever she wants to drag him to, and let her do whatever she wants to do, consequences be damned. She _wants_ to, a voice whispers. She knows what’ll happen. It’s her choice.

_Isn’t it?_ He looks at her too-bright eyes, her flushed cheeks, and the warning bell grows louder.

David, with whom he was getting along uncommonly well with today, is now looking at him with a narrow-eyed expression just short of a glare. Killian knows that look. It’s the look he gets when he doesn’t like how the pirate is looking at his daughter... or, in this case, how his daughter is looking at the pirate.

“I’m not sure—that is, perhaps this isn’t a good time,” Killian manages.

“Why not?” She looks genuinely curious.

He doesn’t know. He does know that the last thing he needs right now is to be alone with her. He’s pretty sure that he knows exactly what she has in mind, and his self-restraint shouldn’t be tested to that extent. He might have left his truly villainous days behind, but he’s far from a saint.

“Emma,” he says. “What’s going on?”

“What? Nothing.” She shrugs. Her fingers are still toying with his collar, and she’s close enough that he can feel her body heat, and it’s getting a little hard to breathe. “You’re not going all broody pirate on me again, are you? You need to lighten up. Come on. We’ve figured it out. It’s all good.”

Killian looks over at David’s glare. It helps. “What’s all good?”

“You know.” Emma gestures vaguely. “Everything.” There’s a teasing glint in her eyes, and she’s smiling again. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Yeah, she definitely doesn’t want to _talk_. He swallows hard. “I think something is wrong,” he says, looking over at Snow. “This isn’t like her.”

Snow has a restraining hand on David’s arm, her brow furrowed. “Emma? You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Emma exclaims, her smile fading as she turns to her mother. “You know, I’m so sick of this bullshit attitude. Just because I like Hook, there must be something wrong? What, my delicate female hormones are clouding my judgment?”

Snow’s eyes widen. Killian is frozen, unable to believe his ears. David looks like someone just hit him over the head with a blunt object.

“No,” Snow says slowly. “It just... are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure she’s not,” Killian growls. He reaches up to put his hand on her temple, then at the side of her neck. Her skin is rather warmer to the touch than it ought to be, and her pulse jumps fast against his fingers, in time with his own. “Are you drunk, love?”

Emma lets her shoulders drop, her look teasing. “Drunk? I only had a hot chocolate. _No_ , I’m not drunk, I’m just... happy.”

It hits him at once, and he curses, feeling like a fool. “Love potion,” he mutters. “Or some manner of spell—”

“What?” David demands, recovering his wits. “A love potion?”

Killian glares at him. “Aye, we are dealing with a witch, if you recall.”

“Yeah, but why would she—”

“Does it bloody matter?” Killian demands. Emma is still far too close to him, and she doesn’t seem overly bothered by his words, which is another sign that there’s definitely something wrong. He takes her hand as gently as he can, and pushes it back towards her.

She frowns at him, and her smile disappears. There’s a glimmer of hurt in her eyes. “You... Killian. I thought you wanted—I mean, you said. Don’t you?”

He almost laughs at the way that even magic can’t loosen Emma Swan’s tongue enough to put any feelings into words that form a coherent sentence, but he can’t, not when she looks so upset. “Ask me again when you’re sober,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Please. You aren’t yourself right now.”

“I feel fine,” she insists. “Better than fine.”

He tries a smile, but it doesn’t really take. “Aye, that’s rather the point.”

“You said you had hot chocolate?” David asks. “Where’d you get it?”

Emma shrugs. “Ruby brought it over.”

David looks over towards the bar, where Ruby is busy putting away clean dishes. Henry is sitting on a bar stool, eating yet another muffin and swivelling on the chair as he chats to Ruby. “I’ll go ask—”

“No,” Snow and Killian say together.

“You really think she’ll appreciate you dragging more people into this?” Snow goes on in an undertone, cocking her head at her husband. “Or Henry overhearing?”

David shrugs, looking helpless. “We need to figure this out.”

“We should call Regina,” Snow says, though there’s a question in her voice, like she’s not sure that’s a good idea.

Killian shakes his head. If he knows Emma at all, and he does, she’s going to be embarrassed as hell once the effects of this magic wear off. The last thing she needs is Regina rubbing this in her face. “Not Regina. Call Tink.”

Emma huffs out a dry, humourless laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Tink. Of course.”

He’s pretty sure she’s just come to a very wrong conclusion, and the resignation in her voice makes him think that maybe it isn’t a new thought, and this is all far too much to deal with right now. He can’t seem to get his thoughts in order. It’s hard enough to keep his body under control.

“Emma,” he starts, but there’s nothing he can think to say, nothing that’s even remotely appropriate.

“Here, I’ll do it, I can put her on speaker.” Snow, in contrast to Emma, looks relieved at the alternative to Regina. She digs out her phone and does something to it that makes the ringing noise echo into the room. She puts it down on a nearby table, and they gather around it, Emma still hovering close to Killian as if she can’t help herself.

She probably can’t.

He’s going to murder someone.

“Sounds like a love potion,” Tink says when they’ve described the effects to her. “Although technically, it’s not really love, it’s more—but we were just with her. Blue was with her the whole time. She would’ve noticed if anything was wrong—”

“Clearly, she didn’t,” Killian says, his jaw clenched.

“Right,” Tink says. “Okay. Uhm, how is she? I mean... does she seem drunk? Obsessive? Desperate?”

Killian, Snow, and David all exchange looks. “No,” Snow says. “Just a little... eager.”

Emma rolls her eyes at her mother’s prudish euphemism, and glowers at the phone.

“Because there are different kinds,” Tink goes on. “Wait, is it just Hook? Or other guys, too?”

“Just Hook,” Snow says.

Oh, no. That’s about the only thing that can possibly make this worse: Emma having her attraction to him confirmed and common knowledge.

Reformed villain or not, he _really_ wants to introduce Zelena to his hook. Violently.

“Well, that’s something,” Tink says. “It sounds like this one just removes inhibitions and amplifies what’s already there.”

Killian squeezes his eyes shut. He never would have thought that he’d hate hearing such a thing, but it’s the same kind of double-edged blade as Emma’s recent attempts at flirtation. It’s everything he wants, in exactly the wrong way.

“Or perhaps,” he says, “it was targeted. That’s possible, isn’t it? To incite passion for a specific person?”

“Sure,” Tink says. “But I don’t know why anyone would bother when—”

“It hardly matters now,” Killian cuts her off. “What we need is a cure.”

“No, we don’t,” Emma says. “Because I’m not sick. I don’t care what some _fairy_ says, this is stupid. You know,” she slaps Killian on the arm, or tries to; her hand loses strength before it hits him, and just settles there instead, warm even through the leather of his coat, “I’m a big girl, Killian. If you don’t want me, you can just say so.”

Killian draws in a deep breath, trying to keep his mind on David’s glare and Zelena’s demise. This time, he can’t even remove Emma’s hand; it’s on his right arm, meaning he’d have to use his hook. He tries to shift away from her instead, to no real avail. He directs a glare of his own at David. If ever there was a time for the man to come drag his daughter off the pirate, this is surely it. “We need. A cure.”

Tink sighs, a rustling sound in the phone’s speaker. “There’s no cure. But the good news is, it’ll wear off on its own. Probably within a few hours, but it depends on how much she drank.”

“Right,” Snow says, looking relieved. “Thanks, Tink.”

“We’d better get her home,” David says after they’ve ended the call with Tink. “Let her sleep it off.”

Killian half-expects him to add, _away from the pirate_ , but to his surprise, David has stopped glaring at him. In fact, when he catches Killian’s eye, he gives him a nod, and it feels like respect.

Killian nods back. He couldn’t agree more. The last place he needs to be is in the same room as an overly amorous Emma Swan.

Emma protests, of course. “I want to talk to Hook,” she insists, almost petulant. “Damn it, just give me a minute, will you?”

Killian shakes his head. “Swan, you’ve been drugged. You need to go home and rest.”

She looks at him, and he can see the hurt in her eyes, and he can’t take this much longer. His voice comes out a little rough as he meets her gaze. “I swear to you, if you still want to tomorrow, we’ll talk. But just... tell me when you’re sober.”

She seems to realise that he means it. Her shoulder slump and she nods, and calls for Henry as she and Snow head for the door.

David makes to follow them, but stops again almost at once, turning back to Killian. “Hey. You okay?”

“Fine,” Killian grits out, in no mood for judgment or interrogation, trying to fight off the memory of Emma toying with his collar.

Clearly, it’s been _far_ too long since he’s been with a woman.

David just raises his eyebrows, in that gently prompting way he has, and Killian reminds himself that they’re on the same side. And David knows that.

“Wait. Sorry. I’ll admit that I’m a little out of sorts. A rather unexpected turn of events, this.”

David draws in a breath, grimacing. “Yeah, no kidding. You think Zelena was behind it?”

Killian nods. “It stands to reason.”

“But why?” David asks. “What does she gain from it? Trying to distract her, you think?”

Killian opens his mouth, but the familiar feeling of words stuck in his throat makes his fist clench. He knows exactly what Zelena was trying to accomplish here.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to find a way to tell David. Emma will figure it out in two seconds, once she recovers herself.

“Perhaps,” he says instead. “If so, it’s not a very good effort.”

“We’ll keep an eye out anyway,” David says darkly. He hesitates, then: “Look, you were really decent back there. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me for that,” Killian snaps. He’s still trying to get his heart rate back under control, and if David knew the kinds of thoughts that keep rearing up...

David smirks. “Sorry. It’s part of the deal. You get acknowledgement when you do the right thing. And speaking of—not saying that I think you would, but I’m her father, and I have to say it. Don’t gloat about this, yeah? Not to her.”

Killian suppresses a flash of anger at the thought of it, and meets David’s gaze evenly. “I’d rather chop off my other hand.”

“Good.”

“And bear in mind,” Killian says, “Tink _did_ say it can be targeted. When you tell her what happened, make sure to mention that.”

There’s definitely respect in David’s eyes now. “Yeah. Good idea. I’ll keep you updated?”

Killian nods, and manages a smile that feels sincere, if small. “Thank you.”

David claps him on the shoulder before following his wife and daughter out of the diner, leaving Killian standing there, feeling...

He wants to run after her and kiss her senseless, consequences be damned. He wants to hunt down Zelena and kill her for all of this. He wants to court Emma properly. He wants to find the best swordsman in town and go a few rounds, until he’s too exhausted to remember.

In lieu of that, he heads out to the back yard, to practice sword drills until he’s exhausted and some of the anger—at Zelena, at himself, at the world—has burned out.

It doesn’t help with the _want_ that’s still coursing through his veins. It doesn’t shake the memory of Emma’s hand tangled in his collar, or that of the last time she did it, in the damp, hot jungle of Neverland.

Or that of Emma sidling over to him, looking at him with want written all over her face. He knows it was the magic. And he’s fully prepared to pretend that it was all engineered by the spell, that it was just Zelena trying to draw them together, but that’s for tomorrow, for her sake. He knows better. Emma wasn’t bewitched to want him, she was far too lucid for that. The potion just made her admit her desires, rather like the Echo Caves dragged his confession from him.

_Just because I like Hook..._

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to rein in his still-racing. She’s under a spell. She didn’t mean it, not like that.

But oh, if she did...

He can’t seem to get that thought out of his head. Worse: he knows how she kisses. It’s seared into his brain, the memory of her hands tugging at his collar and her lips on his, soft and hot and demanding, her breath coming in gasps and mingling with his—

There’s a limit, Killian decides, as to what a man can reasonably be asked to endure in one day. And having the woman he loves throw herself at him, and having to rebuff her, and knowing she’ll most likely resent him for the entire affair come tomorrow, is definitely beyond any reasonable line.

He gives in and goes up to his room for a shower, and to find what relief he can.


End file.
